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THE 



COTTAR'S SUNDAY, 



OTHER POEMS, 



CHIEFLY IN THE SCOTTISH DIALECT. 

BY PETER STILL. 



"Ah ! poetry is like love, its own avenger; 

Sweet thoughts, fine fancies, by its footsteps roam : 
It wanders through the world a lonely stranger, 

To find this weary world is not its home." 



Philadelphia: 

HENRY LONGSTRETH, 347 MARKET ST. 
1845. 






C. SHERMAN, PRINTER. 



TO 

SIE MICHAEL BRUCE, 

OF STENHOUSE AND SCOTSTOWN, BART., 

THIS 

Cittic bohtmc of poems 

IS VERY RESPECTFULLY 
AND GRATEFULLY DEDICATED BY 

THE AUTHOR. 



':r> 



CONTENTS. 







Page 


To THE Reader, 




9 


The Cottar's Sunday, 


. 


25 


Robin and Mary, a Tale, 
A Dream, 


9^' . 


. 37 
69 


Lines written on a blank leaf of " The Book of Scot 




tish Song," 




. 77 


Stanzas written at the request of a F 


ricnd. 


78 


The Orphan's Dream, 




79 


The Last Speech, Dying Words, 


and Death 


of 


Bacchus, 


. 


81 


Ode to Spring, 




. 91 


A Sailor's Address to the Ocean, 




92 


Address to my Auld Pipe, . 




. 94 


To a Lark, 




99 


The Wanderer, 




. 101 


A Real Vision, . 




114 


The Scottish Muse, . 




. 121 


The Emigrant's Farewell, 


. 


127 


A Wish, .... 




. 129 


Love, .... 




ib. 


SONNET to Ugie Water, . 




. 131 


1* 







Tl CONTENTS. 

To a beautiful Motherless Infant, 

To Mary, .... 

Written on Visiting Mr. T. D., Cruden, 

On the Death of Burns, 

Written with a pencil, while standing beside 

Flaxman's Statue of Burns on the Calton 

Hill, Edinburgh, . . . 

To May, ..... 
For New- Year's Day, 
Pity's Tear, .... 
To Cecilia, Infant Daughter of Mr. R— K 
To a Friend, .... 
On the Death of a Friend, 
Suggested on reading a Sonnet addressed to 

a Poetical Friend, by S. W. Partridge, 
Written on leaving Dundee, 
To Winter, .... 
To Hope, .... 

EPISTLE to Mr. A. H., Aberchirder, 
To A. R., Esq., Peterhead, 
To Mr. William Cruickshank, 

To Mr. G. M, D s, . 

To Mr. J. Milne, Author of " The Widow 

and her Son," 
To Mr. W. Thom, Inverury, 
To Sir Michael Bruce, Baronet, 
From Mr. A. Harper, to the Author, 
SONG : Peggie Munro, 

Tlie Gowden Ring, 



CONTENTS. 


Vll 


The Glen o' the West, 


Page 
193 


Jeanie's Lament, 


194 


Rovin' Tam, . . . . . 


197 


The Faithless Whisper, . 


198 


Ye needna be Courtin' at Me, 


199 


The Rose of Inverugie, . 
The Disappointed Sailor, 
The wee Blind Roguie, . 


200 
201 
203 


The Sailor's Departure, 


205 


Peggie's Soliloquy, 

Tell me will Ye Go, . 


206 
207 


To Mary, .... 


208 


Woman's Witchfu' E'e, 


209 


On Her Majesty's Second Visit to Scotland, 


211 


The Widow's Lament, 


213 


Farewell to my Jean, 


214 



TO THE KEADEE. 



Instead of prefacing this little volume of Poems in the 
usual manner, it has been suggested by several friends, 
that I should introduce it to the notice of my readers by 
laying before them a brief sketch of my own life. 

Autobiography is perhaps the most difficult subject 
that a writer can attempt. If he be not an " out and 
out" egotist, when he sits down to write his own liistory, 
however much he may feel himself at home in one re- 
spect, he will soon discover that the subject is far from 
being congenial to his nature. If he be a modest man, 
his sense of modesty will place him on the rack of self- 
restraint, and cramp or confine his ideas in every line ; 
while his sense of what is due to himself, may at times 
compel him to rebel against his modesty, and modesty 
thus outraged will whisper in his ear that the public will 
laugh at his folly and presumption. If he wishes to do 
full justice to his subject, he must necessarily touch many 
sensitive strings in his own bosom, which were placed 
there, not to be harped upon in the sight of the world, 
but to be tenderly touched in his hours of solitude and 



10 



retirement ; since his own heart can alone respond to 
tlieir vibrations, and sympathize with their inherent feel- 
ings and emotions. A man may, however, write his own 
life, so far as external scenes and circumstances are con- 
cerned, without being considered an egotist. 

Without entering farther on internal feelings and emo- 
tions than, to his own sense of modesty, may appear par- 
donable, if not absolutely necessary, there are external 
scenes and circumstances, accidents and events, in the 
life of every man who has mingled with society, known 
to others as well as to himself, which he may not impro- 
perly, and without incurring the charge of egotism, re- 
cord and publish. Whilst complying with the wish and 
advice of my friends, it is this, and no more than this, 
that I now intend to do, by prefacing my little volume 
with a brief account of my early years, and such circum- 
stances in after-life as have been thought not devoid of 
interest by those friends and acquaintances in my own 
locality, to whom they are well known, and whose sym- 
pathies they have warmly excited. 

I was born in the parish of Fraserburgh, in the county 
of Aberdeen, on the first day of January, 1814 ; my father 
being at that time a farmer there, and in comfortable 
circumstances ; but by a law-suit, then pending between 
him and the proprietor of his farm, he became the poorest 
man in the parish ; the expenses of litigation, though the 
case was finally decided in his favour, having absorbed 
his whole property. At Whitsunday, 1814, he removed 
to the parish of Longside, in the same county, and there 



11 



hired himself as a day-labourer ; and in that parish the 
greater part of my life has been spent. I had tlie good 
fortune to be blessed with one of the best of mothers, who 
early taught me my duty to God and to the world ; and 
her counsels were zealously seconded by her own mother, 
who was an inmate of our little hallan from the time my 
father left Fraserburgh till her death. Grannie was in- 
deed a tutor to me of no ordinary kind, and from her I 
received the first rudiments of education. Her memory 
was an inexhaustible magazine of choice sayings, anec- 
dotes, proverbs, tales, and old ballads, and my mind be- 
came stored with many of these, long before I had learned 
to spell my own name. I can yet vividly recall the bright, 
sunny, summer evenings, when I have set myself down 
beside her on the green, gowany banks of Ugic, and 
listened with delightful emotions to her ever-varying 
anecdotes and talcs ; or the long, dark winter nights, 
when I have given up my whole heart to her songs and 
ballads, ere the cares of life had yet crowded around mc, 
or the sunshine of childhood passed away. Even when 
the dark clouds of care and sorrow have, in after years, 
at times lowered gloomily over me, how often has the re- 
membrance of the peaceful past cast a ray of light and of 
hope upon my most cheerless prospects, and brightened 
despondency with a transient gleam of sunshine and sere- 
nity I Childhood is a sweet season — a delicious dream, 
which we often pause to ponder upon when it has passed 
away for ever. It is then that we lay the foundation 
whereupon to build the future man, it may be, for good 



12 



or for evil. Childhood is the spring of life, and the fruits 
of its autumn, if only in embryo, are then formed in 
every bud or blossom which it nourisheth ; and, although 
it is not yet universally admitted that songs or ballads, 
however innocent and natural, can be considered as whole- 
some nourishment for a young and tender mind, I am 
convinced that much of my own future character has 
been derived from those I learned in infancy. Oflen in 
mature years have I found my virtues strengthened, or 
my vices restrained, by the recollection of an artless song 
or a touching tale ; while the thought that I first heard 
them from the lips of some beloved one, then resting in 
the " narrow house," has of itself exercised a salutary 
influence over me, and insensibly led me to choose the 
right path, when otherwise I might have chosen the 
wrong. But, to proceed : After having my mind stored 
by Grannie, with a vast accumulation of her own stock 
of knowledge, about the seventh or eighth year of my 
age, I was sent to school by an uncle, a brother of my 
mother, who died soon afterwards, and I had scarcely 
ceased to bewail his loss, when I was taken from school ; 
my parents being unable to continue my education any 
longer. I had been taught the rules of arithmetic, and 
had even made some small progress in mathematics ; but 
my chief delight was in reading " Scott's Beauties of 
Eminent Writers," and it was while so employed that I 
first felt my heart responsively thrilling to the beauties 
of poetry. "Gray's Elegy," "Parncll's Hermit," "Camp- 
bell's Hohenlinden," extracts from his " Pleasures of 



13 



Hope," from " Thomson's Seasons," from Scott, Byron, 
and Burns, were then imprinted on my young and sensi- 
tive heart in glowing characters, never to be obliterated 
till I am no more. My education on the whole amounted 
to nothing more than what is common to almost all the 
peasantry of Scotland — a few years of tuition at a coun- 
try school, often interrupted by bad health ; for I have 
been from my infancy subject to frequent attacks of head- 
ache, and also to pains in my ears ; accompanied at 
times by a partial defect in my hearing ; which latter 
complaint has terminated in complete, and, it may be, in- 
curable deafness. 

I do not exactly remember, but I think I must have 
been about eleven years of age, when I was taken to the 
feeing market, at Longside, and engaged to tend cattle 
belonging to a farmer who resided at a distance of about 
five miles from my father's house. My pasture-ground 
was a wide and wild range of a heatJi-clad hill, on the 
north side of the hills which separate the parishes of 
Longside and Cruden. For a few weeks, it was to me a 
wilderness — a prison without walls, or roof, save the blue 
vault of heaven. I felt at times lonely and sad, and 
sighed in secret for the green banks of Ugic. My master 
and mistress were, however, very kind people, and the 
lone hill soon became a paradise. The summer passed 
swiftly away, and found me contented and happy. At 
times, indeed, I was cold and wet, but a contented mind 
has the jewel of earthly happiness within itself. Martin, 
mas came, and I found myself by my mother's side, ten- 
2 



14 



de-ring her my scanty lialf-year's wages. That was, in- 
deed, a happy moment to me. Where were the wet, the 
cold, and the comfortless days now I All forgotten in the 
smile of love which she cast upon me. O there is no 
smile like a mother's smile ! It is one of the bright and 
beautiful tilings which light up the path of life as we 
pass onward to the grave, and there only is it extin- 
guished and forgotten. 

For a few months during winter, I was again at school, 
for the last time. Early in the ensuing spring, I returned 
to my former occupation — that of tending cattle, and was 
fortunate in obtaining a situation near home ; being en- 
gaged to the farmer from whom my father rented his 
cottage. My allotted pasture lay close on the north bank 
of the Ugie, where the grass was green and plentiful, and 
if ever flesh and blood enjoyed perfect felicity under the 
blue firmament of heaven, I certainly did it there. Some 
one of our poets beautifully sings : — 

" 'Tis sorrow's soothing nourishment 
To feed on pleasures past," 

and I have often experienced the truth of the sentiment, 
as well as admired its beauty. How often have I fed 
upon the remembrance of that sunny summer, and the 
joys which wei-e then mine ! How often have I been 
there in imagination, when the cares of life covered me 
in after-years as with a thick and gloomy cloud I Even 
now, while I write at a distance of nearly one hundred 
and fifty miles from that paradise of my youth,* the same 

* This was written in Edinburgh. 



15 



simple ideas, the same delicious emotions, and the same 
deep reverence toward all things, which the great Creator 
of nature has called into existence to adorn and beautify 
the world, are again conjured up, with the same dreami- 
ness of delight, and the same sensations of admiration, 
love, and wonder, which accompanied them when they 
first stirred in my youthful bosom. 

" Laugh on, but there are souls o' love 
In laddies herdin' kye." 

So sung Robert Nicoll, one of Scotland's sweetest poets 
and his song is not less true than beautiful. I am, how- 
ever, lingering too long on the dreamy days ofauld lang- 
syne : yet it is quite natural to linger in a beautiful 
garden, when all without its walls is, in comparison, a 
cold and barren waste ; or at best only presenting a calm 
and cultivated spot here and there. I do not, however, 
mean to affirm that all the rest of my life has been a wil- 
derness without a flower. There has been, at least, one 
daisy, and one rose — Contentment and Hope — whose 
sweet fragrance has never failed to revive my drooping 
spirits, at all seasons, and in all places, even during tlie 
keenest frosts of adversity's winter. 

I continued in farm-service up to my twcntictii year, 
serving many different masters throughout Buchan, and 
have to confess, that, as I grew up towards manhood, I 
became a wild and thoughtless youth ; seldom, very 
seldom indeed, looking beyond the present moment, or 
even examining my own heart to see if there was aught 



16 



that savoured of virtue, or a thouglit of my mortality or 
immortality there. I even might have forg-otten that I 
had a heart, so completely vras it drow^ned in its own fa- 
thomless fountain of thoughtlessness, had not the death 
of my grandmother — the earliest instructer of my youth, 
and the fondly-loved friend of my riper years — awakened 
me to a state of serious and sorrowful meditation. She 
died, at the age of eighty-six, while I was in my nine- 
teenth year. In the Poem entitled " The Cottar's Sun- 
day," I have endeavoured to give a faithful sketch of 
grannie, and shall therefore pass on to another and less 
melancholy subject. Before I was fully twenty years of 
age, I was married to my present wife, and after remain- 
ing for a short time longer in farm-service, became a 
day-labourer. 

We had not much of wliat is commonly called the 
warld^s gear when we became one, but industry and fru- 
gality are in themselves a fortune. Things went on 
wonderfully well, and might have continued to do so, had 
health continued mine. Disease soon brings poverty and 
privation to the fireside of the labouring-man, and de- 
prives him of all his little comforts and happiness ; how- 
ever resigned and contented he may happen to be by 
natural disposition. Nature is too strong for Reason in 
some cases; nor can Religion itself always inspire even 
the most virtuous mind with unmurmuring resignation, 
in such trying circumstances. How can a sick man look 
contentedly from his bed of thorns, when he beholds a 
beloved wife and children weeping around him, and not 



r 



a morsel of food to satisfy the cravings of nature, nor one 
penny in the wide world that he can honestly call his 
own I Contentment in such a case, would be a crime 
against all the feelings of humanity, and against religion 
itself. The man who does not love and feel for his own 
offspring, has no claim to the title of Christian. 

I was married in July, 1833, and it was in autumn, 
1835, while serving for a few weeks in the parish of Bel- 
helvie, about twenty miles from my home, that a small 
red spot made its appearance upon one of my eyes, and 
increased in size and pain daily till the eye became al- 
most blind. I served out my time with much pain ; went 
home at Martinmas, and put myself under medical treat- 
ment, which proved of no avail. The other eye soon 
began to exhibit the same symptom, and in a few weeks 
I was involved in all but complete darkness. This was 
a trial for a young man of a lively and hopeful disposi- 
tion, and one of the most severe kind too. My spirits 
died within me ; my general health gave way, and being 
accustomed to laborious exercise, the sinews of my knees 
and ankles became so much contracted, that, at tlie end 
of six months, when my sight was again restored, I found 
myself a helpless cripple. Restoration of sight was, how- 
ever, new life to one of my disposition, and Hope, the 
sweet seraph, began to whisper new tales of happiness 
and health. I knew that exercise, however painful in the 
mean time, was essential to the restoration of my wonted 
faculties, and, with the assistance of a staff, I indulged 
it, perhaps too freely at first, but soon became so far re- 
2^ 



18 



novated as to think and speak of going to work. It was 
the season of peat-casting, and, I remember well, I went 
to the moss of Cruden with my staff in one hand and my 
spade in the other. I was not indeed able to wheel the 
peats to the lair, but I managed to cast fifty barrowfulls 
the first day, and gloried in my own strength when I 
made out a hundred the next. For the last six months 
I had earned nothing, and now, in two days, I had gained 
is, Gd. I O the very thought was enough to effect a com- 
plete cure on my then stiff and feeble limbs. I continued 
to go on with my work, improving in strength slowly ; 
but what I wanted in strength was made up by the ar- 
dour of a willing and contented mind, and that ardour 
prompted me to over-estimate and over-tax my strength. 

I lost my hearing in the course of a single afternoon, 
while working on that same desolate and dreary muir ; 
and it was the general opinion of the people in the neigh- 
bourhood, that I overworked and hurt myself, and thus 
caused my deafness. It is, however, useless to look back 
with regret, or blame my own folly for my misfortune. 
Necessity was then supreme ruler over me : I willingly 
obeyed its commands, for the sake of those I love, and 
have never repented that I did so. Simultaneously with 
the loss of my hearing I was seized with pain and dizzi- 
ness in my head, which, for the next three years, ren- 
dered me as helpless as the most confirmed drunkard, 
and even to this day is not wholly eradicated. 

I could mention many painful trials which this trouble 
in my head brought upon me, but shall content myself 



19 



witli recording one circumstance which caused me more 
bitter sorrow tlian all the rest of my sufferings put to- 
gether. Soon afler I became deaf, my mother died, and 
as soon as I learned the melancholy tidings, I resolved on 
going to my father's house to pay the last tribute of re- 
spect and duty to one who had been to me more than a 
mother. Light-headed and lame as I was, I immediately 
set out on my melancholy journey ; reached my destina- 
tion, and after sitting one night beside her corpse, on the 
following day proceeded on foot to Fraserburgh — a dis. 
tance of about fifteen miles — that I might have the mourn- 
ful satisfaction of seeing her remains laid in the church- 
yard of that place. I was too lame and light-headed to 
think of being able to keep foot with the funeral proces- 
sion for such a distance, and therefore preferred going to 
the place of interment on the day previous ; especially as 
I had some relations there, with whom I could stop for 
the night. Afler many falls by the way, I at last reached 
Fraserburgh, weary and wo-begone, and was hirpling and 
staggering along one of the streets, when a constable be- 
longing to the town thought proper to seize me ; mis- 
taking me, no doubt, as a drunken vagrant. Being 
wholly deaf, I knew not a word that he uttered, and yet 
he would not believe me when I told him so ; doubtless 
imagining that I was feigning deafness as an excuse for 
not answering his questions. Afler giving a satisfactory 
account of myself, I got clear in time to see the remains 
of my mother laid in the grave ; but the bitter bitterness 
of that hour, combined with the mournful duty I was 



30 



engaged in, and the fatigue of tlie journey, so overpow- 
ered me, that after being conveyed home I was unable to 
leave my bed for weeks. This happened in November, 
1836, and between that time and the beginning of har- 
vest, 1838,1 may say I gained nothing; for though I 
made several attempts to resume work, I only rendered 
myself more helpless ; the task I imposed upon myself 
being too much for one so enfeebled by sickness. By the 
beginning of harvest, 1838, I was so far renovated that I 
engaged to a farmer in the neighbourhood, and was en- 
abled to work until it was finished ; at which time I was 
seized with a fever, and was confined to bed during the 
whole of the following winter. It would answer no good 
purpose, were I to give a detail of the suflferings of my 
wife and children during these years of sickness and 
privation ; yet they can never be effaced from my me- 
mory, nor the thoughts they inspired altogether forgotten. 
When able to leave my bed, and often when I was not, 
I endeavoured to amuse myself, and in some degree 
managed to wean my thoughts from brooding over my 
afflictions, by attempts at verse-making. Poetry had 
always been one of my chief delights, even when a child, 
and my first attempt at rhyming was made during my 
blindness, in the course of the winter, 1835 — 6. I then 
found it a source of amusement, and even pleasure ; and 
now that I was deaf, the complete silence with which I 
was surrounded did not in the least degree detract from 
the same feelings of gratification. On the contrary, as 
deafness continued year after year, I became more stu- 



21 



dious, and more ardently attached to my hobby. I also 
became much devoted to reading, but was often sadly 
puzzled how to procure books, and have oftep walked a 
distance of fourteen miles to borrow a volume ; and that 
too on days so exceedingly wet and stormy that my fel- 
low-labourers could not go out to work. Chambers's Ed- 
inburgh Journal, with occasionally a look of a weekly 
newspaper, was, however, for a long time almost my 
whole reading. When I had nothing to read, I wrote ; 
and in the spring of 1839 published a few Poems for the 
first time ; necessity compelling me to do so, in the hope 
of realizing as much profit as keep my famishing family 
from absolute starvation. This hope was so far realized ; 
but the publication was of no permanent benefit, and my 
health becoming somewhat improved, I struggled on, 
through debt, ditches, and disease, up to the autumn of 
1843, when I was again thrown off work by a return of 
the before-mentioned trouble in my head. During the 
winter of 1843-4, I earned nothing ; and getting a little 
better in the spring of 1844, I published another small 
volume of my Poems, which falling under the notice of 
the amiable and benevolent lady of Dr. Jack, Principal 
of King's College and University, Aberdeen; she, along 
with tiie venerable Principal, and Dr. Daun, became so 
deeply interested in my behalf, that through their benevo- 
lent exertions, and the kindness of their friends, I have 
been enabled to bring out the present edition ; to indulge 
in many comforts which were previously beyond my 
reach, and also to continue the education of my children, 



which otherwise I could not have done. I need not say 
tliat I am grateful for all tliis, and I fondly hope tiiat, by 
my future conduct, I shall be enabled to show myself in 
some respect not unworthy of the Christian kindness 
with which they have comforted and honoured me and 
mine. The generosity of many more friends demands 
my warmest gratitude ; but as it is perhaps improper to 
mention names, I shall only assure them, one and all, 
that I shall ever retain a fond and grateful remembrance 
of their benevolent exertions in my behalf. 

With regard to the merit or demerit of my Poems, I 
say nothing. It is not the proper province of an author 
to criticise his own work ; but I may be allowed to state 
that most of the pieces in the present little volume have 
already been favourably noticed by the press, and also 
well received by the public in general. It has indeed 
been privately hinted that " The Cottar's Sunday" is too 
close an imitation of Burns' " Cottar's Saturday Night," 
and I do not mean to assert that it is altogether free from 
imitation ; but I humbly think it contains, at least, as 
much imitation of Nature as it does of Burns. Pope — 
himself both a poet and a critic of the first order — tells 
us in one of his notes to "Homer's Iliad," that "imita- 
tion does not hinder invention ;" and I think it will be 
generally admitted, even by the most fastidious critics, 
that this assertion is quite true. The great difficulty of 
avoiding imitation lies in the fact, that Nature, in most 
of her phases, is unchanging. One poet writes a poem 
wherein he imitates Nature, and is immediately applaud- 



23 



ed as a master ; while another writes one on a similar 
subject, and though he imitates the same unchanging 
Nature, instead of receiving praise, receives unmitigated 
censure ; being condemned as an imitator of the former 
poet only. I do not think that this can properly be con- 
sidered " poetic justice." I, however, leave ray little 
book in the hands, and to the judgment of the public ; 
and, in conclusion, beg to repeat my acknowledgment 
and thanks to all who have assisted me to bring it under 
the notice of so honourable and impartial a tribunal — 
trusting, at least, that it contains nothing opposed to the 
interests of true religion or morality. 

Peterhead, June, 1845. 



THE COTTAR'S SUNDAY. 

INSCRIBED TO MRS. PRINCIPAL JACK, 

king's college, ABERDEEN. 



How goodly 'tis to see 
The rustic family 
Duly along the churchway path repair .' 
The mother neat and plain, 
Leading her ruddy train, 
The father pacing slow with modest air^ 
With honest heart and humble guise they come 
To serve the Lord of Hosts, and bear his blessing home. 

Mant. 

Friend of my lowly muse, friend of my heart 1 
Accept the tribute of a gratcfu' breast; 
In simple strains sincere, unsmoothed by art, 
I sing- to you the cottar's day o' rest. 
That holy day by Heavenly Wisdom blest 
An' set aside, that sinfu' man may draw 
Near to his God, the bread o' life to taste. 
An' wean his soul frac warldly cares awa ; — 
I siug that hallowed day as spent in cottar's ha'. 
3 



26 THE cottar's SUNDAY. 

O how delightfu' dawns that blissfu' morn, 
Whan nature wears her loveliest robes o' green ! 
Whan fairest flow'rets ilka field adorn, 
An joyous June Icuks laughin o'er the scene ! 
The cottar frae his ha' comes forth alane. 
An' doun his rigs or kail-yard saunters slow ; 
Wi' thoughts contemplative, wi' soul serene. 
He marks the dewy daisies round him blow, 
While, borne on wings o' love, his feelings heavenward 
flow. 

Nae ither morn to him is half sae fair, 
Nae ither morn frae labour sets him free ; 
His gratefu' heart he tunes to silent prayer, 
As slow he wanders o'er the dewy lea ; — 
That Heaven wi' him and his that day may be. 
An' onward lead them in the narrow way ; 
That each may bow the heart as weel's the knee. 
Deep in his soul he fervently does pray, 
An' higher mounts that prayer than mounts the lark's 
sweet lay. 

Then, turning round to view that lowly ha', 
For whose lov'd inmates thus he intercedes, 
He sees his partner dear wi' hawkies twa, 
Whilk o'er the craft to some hained rig she leads ; 
Wi' quickened steps, to meet her on he speeds, 
An' tentie tethers ane or baith the kye ; 
Leuks gin the branks be sicker on their heads, 
For fear o' scaith to barley, aits, or rye, — 
Syne bids his Katie mark the lovely mornin' sky. 



THE cottar's SUNDAY. 27 

Now, side by side, they slowly saunter hame, 
Wl)ile, pointin' to his richly-rising grain, 
The grate fu' cottar tells the happy dame 
How gentle dews, an' last week's timely rain, 
Will mak', at least, anither boio their ain : — 
" An', O how thankfu' ought we baith to be 
To Him who bids us thus in hope remain 
That ' daily bread' to us an' ours he'll gie I 
Say, can we e'er repay his love to you an' me I" 

Thus meditative, as they onward move. 
They mark the beauties an' the blessings near ; 
Their thoughts the same, while gratitude an' love 
Glow in their hearts, warm-thrilling an' sincere ; — 
For love is lealest far in hearts that fear 
Its sacred source — the God of love, all pure, — 
An' gratitude, its own twin-sister dear, 
Will never deign to dwell, O never sure ! 
In hearts that never lov'd, nor felt love's heavenly power. 

The wee-things now demand a mither's care. 
As blythesome frae their lowly beds they rise ; 
Nae nurse, nae governess stands ready there — 
A parent's hand their ilka want supplies ; 
Ilk little Sunday suit, neat folded, lies 
In press, or drawer, or auld ancestral chest — 
Hamespun an' plain ; yet, how they a' rejoice. 
An' deem themsel's like lairds or ladies drest, 
Whan weekly on they're put, to grace the day o' rest I 



28 THE cottar's SUNDAY. 

The anxious father sees their kindling pride, 
An' checks the germ o' vanity while green ; 
The modest mither, too, will hauflins chide, 
Their little hearts frae love o' dress to wean, 
Yet weel she likes to see them neat and clean, 
An' weel she plays her part to keep them sae ; 
An' aflen tells tliat claes, however mean. 
If duly wash'd and bleach'd on sunny brae. 
Are braw enough for bairns to wear on ony day. 

Beneath a load o' threescore years an' ten, 
Wi' staff in hand, an' earthward bendin' sair, 
Auld grannie now comes hoolie creepin' ben, 
An' seeks the neuk whare stands her auld arm-chair, 
A cushion, safl and clean, awaits her there, 
An' doun she sits : the wee-things shaw their pride 
By welcome words an' warm affection's air — 
The language o' the heart that winna hide, — 
For blythe are they, I trow, whan seatit by her side. 

VVi' palsied hand she strokes ilk little head, 
An' tells them how to spend the holy day, 
That Jesus rose victorious frae the dead. 
To conquer sin an' death, an' live for aye : 
Her earth-sick heart delights to lead the way 
To that blest land where all her hopes repose : 
The life to them that seems so sweet and gay, 
To threescore years an' ten seems full o' woes. 
An' all her thoughts are fixed beyond its earthly close. 



THE cottar's SUNDAY. 29 

Meantime, the cottar spreads the sacred book, 
An' reads, wi' solemn air an' reverence due. 
The sufferings or the love of Him who took 
The sting from death, an' Satan's power o'erthrcvv ; 
Or how he lives, our mediator true, 
And comes again to call his children home. 
When dies the sun amid th' ethereal blue, — 
When fades the moon in yonder starry dome, 
And the big, blazing world sliall sink in nature's tomb. 

Then swells to heaven their morning prayer an' praise. 
Warm frae the sacred altar o' the soul ; 
Nae heartless hypocritic sounds they raise, 
Cauld as the icebergs clust'ring round the pole ; 
Their simple hearts, in unison, extol 
Their heavenly Father — source of light an' love. 
Who bids the pond'rous planets onward roll 
Through regions of immensity above. 
An' marks an' feeds the while the meanest worms that 
move. 

To Him they tell their sins, they tell their wants, 
Lament their weakness an' their wayward will ; 
Extol His grace. His mercy — all He grants 
Their little cup o' pleasure here to fill ; 
From Him they seek continuation still 
Of His long-suffering, never-dying love, 
And all the gifts that flow from Sion's hill ; 
Not that, through works, their title they can prove. 
But for His sake alone who died and lives above. 
3* 



30 THE cottar's SUNDAY. 

Then, rising- from their lowly cottage floor, 
The thrifty mither links the kettle on, 
For they 'g'ainst Sundays only can secure 
The weel-kent herb that grows 'neath China's sun : 
Wi' g-uid ait cakes, or butter'd barley scone. 
They now rejoiein' taste its halesome bree ; 
" Like olive plants about the table roun'," 
The happy wee-things are allow'd to pree, 
While grannie gets her share, an' proud, I trow, is she. 

The breakfast o'er, their thanks to heaven they raise, 
An' ance again for Sion's courts prepare ; 
For now the cottar seeks his Sunday claes, — 
His blue, best suit that time has made threadbare. 
The bustlin' wifie brings them ben ance mair, 
An' gars them leuk as decent as they may, 
His napkin white she ties wi' cantie care, 
Syne buckles on hersel', without delay. 
The snaw-white muslin gown that graced her wedding 
day. 

Their mean attire lat grandeur ne'er despise. 
Nor from their meek communion stand apart. 
As if devotion dwelt in costly guise. 
Or pure religion in the tailor's art ! 
Jehovah marks the raiment o' the heart. 
An' their's may be in glorious robes arrayed ; 
While aft there lurks unseen, a deadly dart 
Beneath the raiment outwardly displayed, — 
A dart to pierce the soul when nature's debt is paid. 



THE cottar's SUNDAY. 31 

But now the cottar sees the neebors roun' 
Advanein' slowly to the house o' prayer, 
An' Katie to the kail-yard hastens down, 
The ne'er-forgotten nosegay to prepare ; 
Nae flowers wi' foreign names, far-famed an' rare, 
But bonnie gems that love fair Scotia's clime, — 
The pink, the lily, an' the daisy fair, 
Sweet-William, tulips, mary-gold, an' thyme, 
Wi' honeysuckle sweet, an' pansies in their prime. 

Wi' love's pure pride, she wales the reddest rose 
To deck the bosom of her partner dear. 
An' mindfu' o' the duty that she owes. 
On grannie^s withered hand bestows its peer : 
Sweet gem ! to her fond heart it seems to bear 
Some dear memorial o' auld langsyne, 
Some Sabbath sweet, some summer evenin' clear, 
Some raptured hour or day o' bliss divine. 
Enjoyed whan love was young, ere life had felt decline. 

The dream is o'er : the bairnies round her knee 
Begin to covet an' to claim the prize. 
For now they're left — the youngest twa or three — 
Till afternoon wi' grannie to rejoice : 
" The parent pair," wi' elder girls or boys. 
Are gane to worship God an' seek his grace. 
Wi' modest mien an' nature-loving eyes, 
Alang the flower-fringed path they slowly pace 
On to the house o' prayer, Jehovah's dwelling-place. 



32 THE cottar's SUNDAY. 

Wi' mournfu' air they tread the kirk-yard green, 
An' mutely moralizing as they go, 
Approach the lowly grave o' some lost frien', 
To drap a tear, or mark a floweret blow : 
Meet place for meditation — nae vain show 
Attracts the e'e that ponders o'er the tomb ; 
Eternal truth seems whispering from below : — 
" Where'er thy hopes, where'er thy wishes roam. 
Here, for a while, vain man, must be thy narrow home." 

Perhaps a father's or a mother's grave, 
A sister's or a brother's there may be ; 
Perhaps their ain loved babe a tear may crave. 
That lately smiled upon its mother's knee. 
Or prattled pretty thoughts, wi' infant glee. 
To win her kiss, or grannie's smile o' love ; — 
The floweret dies beside the withered tree, 
An' new-fledged warblers, fluttering through the grove, 
Aft feed the ruthless hawk, down darting from above ! 

But, hark ! the auld kirk bell, wi' cymbal chime, 
Proclaims aloud to ilka listening ear. 
That ance again has come the appointed time 
To meet the God o' grace wi' holy fear ; 
The cottar frac his cheek wipes aff'the tear. 
An' treads the sacred floor wi' reverent awe ; 
Syne seats himsel' aside his Katie dear. 
On some back seat that stands against the wa', 
Nae cushioned pew has he, wi' crimson buskit braw. 



THE cottar's SUNDAY. 33. 

There, fondly feasting- on the solemn scene, 
Their hearts released frae eartlUy coil an' care, 
Wi' meek, attentive ear, they forward lean 
To catch the word, or join the impressive prayer ; 
Or, half imparadised, some sacred air, 
In concord close wi' Sion's holy lays, 
They warble forth, defying- Satan's snare, — 
Nae power has he while heavenward thus they raise 
The sweet, slow, solemn notes that sound Jehovah's 
praise. 

Perhaps a sacramental Sabbath shines, 
And blest Immanuel's love's before them laid, 
(Is there on earth, between its far confines, 
A scene surpassing- this to man displayed ?) 
The symbol of His flesh before them spread, 
The emblem of His blood 'mong sinners shared I 
Blood for the sake of guilty mortals shed, 
A flood of love, warm-streaming from the Lord I 
And free to each and all around that sacred board I 

Wi' deep humility an' holy awe, 
The trembling cottar lifts the cup divine ; 
An' down his manly cheeks the big tears fa'. 
As reverently he tastes the bread an'' wine : 
His Katie by his side, wi' soul in pine 
For secret sins that God alone may know. 
Strives wi' the flesh, receives the solemn sign, 
Syne hides her face upon the table low. 
An' sabs for help divine to keep her new-made vow. 



34 THE cottar's SUNDAY. 

Perhaps again, in this wide world of tears, 
On tliat blest feast they'll ne'er tosfether fare, 
But, free frae a' their doubts an' a' their fears, 
In new Jerusalem met to part nae mair, 
Wi' blest Immanuel's self rejoicin' share 
The heavenly wine, delicious, rich, an' new ; — 
For he will drink with his disciples there 
Whan all the assembled saints an' angels too. 
Sing hallelujahs sweet, and praises round Him strew. 

Meantime, the cottar's thoughts are centred there, 
And all his soul is melted int6 love ; 
Gone is the world, with all its toil and care. 
He prays that nothing may his purpose move, 
For he has vowed to serve the Lord above, 
And rises from the table singing sweet 
His praise : his full-toned voice seems to improve, 
So fervent is his soul — for heaven so meet — 
All, all his love is laid at blest Immanuel's feet. 

The solemn service o'er, a happy pair. 
Communing with themselves they hameward go; 
While balmy round them breathes the evening air, 
The sun's declining rays now slanting low : 
The wee-tJiings meet them wi' a fervent glow 
O' infant love, that knows nor fraud nor guile, 
An' blythely tell how grannie did bestow 
Her hoarded gifls, their little hearts to wile 
Frac care an' thinkin' lang, an' keep them blest the 
while. 



THE cottar's SUNDAY. 35 

Meanwhile, wi' hoary locks, the age-bent dame 
Stands in the evening sun before the door. 
An' while the hairnics welcome mammy hanie, 
Recalls to mind the happy days o' yore, 
V/han she, fu' blest, wi' him that's now no more, 
Returning frac the holy house o' prayer, 
Had wont to meet her ain blythe infant core, 
That now are parted far, some here, some tiiere, 
Some in the green kirk-yard, an' some she kens-na where. 

Sad wi' the thought, she seeks the ingle neuk, 
An' heaves a secret sigh unkent to a', 
Syne bids the cottar bring tlie holy book. 
An' read the text an' psalms ere gloamin' fa' ; 
Close to her chair he willingly does draw. 
The soul-inspired mandate to obey ; 
The wee-things, standing in a ruddy raw. 
Their leal-loved grannie^s reverent leuks survey, 
As down she bends her ear, attention deep to pay. 

But now the father turns wi' aspect sage, 
An' bids them bring tlie Catechism ben ; 
New thoughts at ance their little hearts engage, 
The holy creed an' the commandments ten, 
Their questions a' are spiered frae en' to en', 
An' Virtue's seeds implanted in their mind ; 
For brawly does the carefu' cottar ken, 
In ilka soil, regardless o' the wind, 
'Tis best to sow in Spring, if fruit he wish to find. 



36 THE cottar's SUNDAY. 

Meantime the mither, listening a' the while, 
Prepares the supper sweet wi' cantie care, 
An' roun' their little board, wi' gratefu' smile, 
The happy family again repair. 
An' soon the halesome food amang them share, 
O' cottar's toil the produce an' reward ; 
Then, kneeling low, they raise their evenin' prayer 
To heaven's all-bounteous, ever-listening Lord, 
As sung by Scotia's loved and never-dying bard. 

Thus, closing slow the sweetly solemn scene, 
Together now they sink in halcyon rest ; 
Devotion lingering in their souls serene 
Whan downy sleep hatli ilka eyelid prest ; 
So sinks the sun in yonder glov/ing west. 
The day's bright glory lingering o'er his bed, 
As if, in robes of light, an angel blest 
Were waiting there, some ransomed soul to lead 
From earth's sin-shrouded vale to glory's fountain-head. 

Lang may the sound of heartfelt prayer an' praise 
From Caledonian cottages arise ; 
An' lang may Sion's holy, heavenly lays 
Be sweetly warbled to the listening skies ; 
In this fair Scotia's richest treasure lies, — 
Lang may she guard the gem with holy zeal ; 
An' may she ne'er her toil-worn sons despise, 
Her fame an' honour rest upon their weal, — 
They of her glory are, an' aye will be, the seal. 



ROBIN AND MARY. 

A TALE. 



PART I. 

See ye yon bit canty hallan 

Jam'd against the brooniy brae ^ 

Do ye deein't a fairy dwallin' ? 
Little ferlie tho' ye may. 

Half conceal'd amang the brambles, 

Scarcely to be seen ava ; 
Ower the lum the rantrce wambles, 

Surely 'tis a fairy ha'. 

Up the western sunny gable. 
Ivy creepin' to the lum, — 

Baudrins lurkin' there on evil, 
Watchin' till the sparrows come. 

On the riggin', perch'd fu' proudly. 
Chanticleer ilk mornin' craws, 

Wauk'nin' echo, clear an' loudly, 
Frae her hidden rocky ha's 
4 



3b ROBIN AND MARY. 

Richt anent the fairy entry, 
Baskin' in the autumn sun, 

Faithfu' Collie sittin' sentry, — 
Like the pope upon his throne. 

Eastward frae the eastern gable, 
Stan's an ivy-thcekit byre, 

Thence a barn, an' syne a stable. 
Next a stack o' peats for fke. 

Down the brae an' soutliward slopit, 
Mark the garden bloomin' fair, 

Fenc'd wi' bourtrees neatly cropit ; — 
Hark the sparrows chirpin' there ! 

In the shadeless sunny centre, 
Stan's a dial upon a pole, 

Cent'ries there a rcsidenter, 
Haudin' up its face to Sol. 

Up the brae aboon the biggin', 
Whins, an' broom, an' fern ye see 

Risin' to the rocky riggin, — 
Hark the mavis' minstrelsy ! 

There the fairy freaks o' Nature 
A' the senses overpower ; 

Nought's the wark o' human creature, 
Save the auld romantic tower. 

Rocks an' rents, an' roots gigantic. 
Crags an' caves compose the scene ; 



ROBIN AND MARY. 

Here an' there a tree romantic 
Clingin' to the sapless stane. 

Rooks an' rabbits, bats an' badgers, 

Hae their habitation tliere, 
Owls an' pyots — countless lodgers. 

Nameless in my rhymin' ware. 

But the glen in a' its glory 

Wecl may claim the muse's care : 

See ye Paradise afore ye ? 
Surely it was ne'er sae fair ! 

Mark the wee bit nameless burnie, 
Jumpin' — joukin' — slidin' slee ; 

Deck'd wi' flowers at ilka turnie, 
Shadit wi' the willow tree. 

Whyles it seems to sink in Terra ; 

Whyles it seems to tyne its way ; 
Whyles it seems owcrcome by sorrow, 

Shrinkin' frae the licht o' day. 

Whyles it seems fu' blythe an' rantin' 
Whyles it seems to turn again 

Backward to its flow'ry fountain, 
Laith to lea' the lovely glen. 

Turn your e'en to flow'ry Flora, 
Breathin' balm, an' buskit braw, 

Cheerin' eident Agenora,* 
Up atween ye an' the ha'. 

* The goddess of Industry. 



40 ROBIN AND MARY. 

There a rich, a peerless maiden, 
Agenora's affspring slic, 

Wi' the fruits o' autumn laden, 
Christen'd Cerest ower the sea. 

Wad ye woo the maid to-morrow. 
Wad ye daut her on your knee, 

Kneel ye down to Agenora, 
Ceres may be won by thee. 

Sighs, an' tears, an' vows thegither, 
Wadna pierce the maiden's ear ; 

But embrace her yieldin' mither, 
Syne the maid may drap a tear. 

Yet yer love yc weel maun master, 
Dinna dicht her tears awa' ; 

Hug the mither aye the faster, 
Soon ye'll see a fountain fa'. 

Threaten death to sulky sorrow, 
Draw a rung to ilka blast, 

Aye stick close to Agenora, — 
Ceres may be thine at last. 

Meantime view the lan'scape shinin' 
See again the canty ha' ; 

Nature there wi' art combinin', 
Wyles the wildert sense awa'. 

Wha may be the happy owner 
O' that hallan an' tlic glen ? 

t The goddess of Agriculture. 



ROBIN AND MARV. 41 

Surely happy hearts are yon'er — 
Surely pleasure but an' ben. 

Ablins, reader, it may be sae ; 

Ablins no — there's nane can tell : 
Whyles the heart may be uneasy, 

Whan the cheek wad feign it well. 

Gildit seats are aften gallin'. 

Aft a smile conceals a tear ; 
Happiness may shmi the hallan 

Blest wi' nature's beauties near. 

Sunny skies an' sylvan scenery 

Ilka tearless e'e maun please ; 
Yet remember, g-audy finery 

Seldom haps a heart at case. 

In the wee bit shapeless shiclin', 

Plac'd amid the moorlan' snaw, 
Happiness may be revealin' 

Joys the palace never saw ; 

While amid the sweets o' nature. 

Sunny braes an' sylvan vales, 
Stampit deep in ilka feature, 

Saddest sorrow aften dwells. 

To my tale, whate'er betide it : — 

Hail Apollo, hail, again ! 
Come an' teach me how to guide it, 

Gie me muses nine or ten. 

4* 



49 ROBIN AND MARY. 

Up Parnassus' slippery steep noo, 

We maun ettle to aspire, 
There the tremblin' strings to sweep noo, 

O' the Caledonian lyre. 



PART II. 
Fifty towmons ower yon halJan, 

Silently hae sped awa, 
Sin' the day that Robin Allan 

First began its key to thraw. 

Fifty towmons past November, 

Robin an' his Mary May, 
First adorned its little chamber, 

On their happy weddin' day. 

Little gear had they atween them. 
Little cash they had to spen' ; 

Nane they hopit to befrien' them. 
Whan they settl'd i' the glen. 

Baith were come o' parents humble, 
Baith were born to toil for life ; 

Yet at Fate they didna grumble ; 
Baith were blest whan man an' wife. 

Robin erst had been a ploughman, 
Sairin' 'mang the farmers roun', 

Sober, steady, unassumin' — 
Foreman aye at ilka town. 



ROBIN AND MARY. 

Mary too had been a servan', 
Sing-Ie-hearted an' sincere, 

Never ance frae duty swervin' — 
She was likit far an' near. 

Artless as the lo'esome lammie, 
Eident as the honey bee, 

Like the simmer mornin' balmy — 
She enamourM ilka e'e. 

Kind to ilka livin' creature, 
Free frae affectation vile ; 

Never deem'd she toil a fetter — 
Labour'd on, an' sang the while. 

Aft when a' the lave were sleepin', 
To the cham'er she wad steal. 

For the herdie's doublets dreepin'. 
An' ere mornin' dry them weeL 

She had aye a sigh for sorrow, 
Aye a tear where tears were due, 

Aye a han', tho' seldom orra. 
Charitable deeds to do- 

Such was Mary, when around her 
Wooers flockit by the score ; 

But they a', save Robin, found her 
Careless o' their lover lore. 

Him she lov'd, an' lov'd sincerely, 
Doatit on his verra name, 



44 ROBIN AND MARY. 

Tliocht about him late and early, 

Sigh'd an' dream'd, an' nurs'd her flame. 

Soon the weddin'-day they set it, 
Soon it came an' pass'd awa ; 

Little din there was about it — 
See them noo at Broomyha'. 

First when there they cam' tliegither, 

Nature unmolested lay ; 
Whins, an' broom, an' fern, an' heather. 

Closely cover'd a' the brae ; 

Bog-s aside the burnie buockit, 
Sprots and rashes thickly grew, 

Ilka strugglin' spring was chockit — 
Fient a fur aneath the plough. 

A', except the wee bit garden, 
Nurs'd by Nature's wildest will, 

Never brocht the laird a farden. 
Save a hare he whyles micht kill, 

Neebours roun', whan Robin teuk it. 
Swore he wadna sit his lease, 

Shook their heads an' sagely leukit 
Ane anither in the face. 

*' Wait a while," quoth Geordie Cadger, 
Ower a dram wi' Willie Wise, 

«' Wait a while — I'll lay a wager, 
Robin soon will rue his prize : 



ROBIN AND MAKT. 45 

*♦ Five-an'-thirty barren acres, 

Free although they be a while, 
Winna fill the bairnies bickers, 

Day an' nicht although he toiL 

" Seven years will soon flee ower him, 

Syne the rent will be to pay ; 
Little kens he what's afore him — 

Wae's my heart for Mary May 1" 

"* Here's yer health," quoth Willie, smilin", 

" Lat him labour as he may, 
It's better sittin' hero than toilin' 

Yon'er on a barren brae. 

" Kent ye muckie Charlie German, 
Greave a while at Mains o' Glen ? 

Ance he teuk a tig o' farmin' — 
Soon was roupit, but an' ben." 

•^ Ay," quoth Geordie, " weei I kent him — 

Hech ! be was an awfu' chiel : 
Few could stan' a day anent him, 

At the scythe or at the flaiL 

•^ Ance out ower a dyke I watch'd him, 
Trenchin' bauka to Saunders Dick ; 

Twa o' Robin wadna match'd him. 
On the spade or on the pick. 

" Mercy, man ! I wish ye'd seen him ; 
Ilka awfu' powerfu' whack. 



46 ROBIN AND MARY. 

Gart the park for acres roun' him, 
Like a very earthquake shak !" 

" Wecl I trow ye man," quoth Willie, 
Coupin' up the ither glass ; 

•' Yet he shortly saw his folly, 

Whan he gaed to cauld Glenlace." 

" Ay," cried Gcordie, " sae will Robin, 
Young and dauntless tho' he be ; 

Soon ye'll see him at the jobbin', 
Scourin' stanks like you an' me. 

»' Empty boats are easy swampit : 
His is toom enough I fear ; 

Soon he'll find his coggie skrimpit — 
Water winna pass for beer." 

These, an' ither sage reflections, 
Pass'd atween our drouthy pair ; 

While aroun' in a' directions, 

Kindred cracks were far frae rare. 

Meantime Robin, nacthing dauntit, 
Yokit briskly to the brae ; 

Soon had greens an' cabbage plantit,- 
Saw them thrivin' ilka day. 

Perseverance was his maxim. 
Ever since he kent Jiimsel' ; 

Sloth gat never leave to tax'im. 
Whatsoever else befell. 



ROBIN AND MARY. 47 

Sair he toil'd, but aye was cheery : 

Independence was his aim, 
An' he found a heart in Mary, 

Pantin' daily for the same. 

Here we for a while maun lea' them : 

Ither scenes demand our care. 
Whan we next come back to see them, 

Fortune's pranks may gar ye stare. 



PART III. 



Charlie German, wham we spak' o', 
Lang had courtit Mary May ; 

An', o' course, he gat the knack o' 
Hatin' Robin nicht an' day. 

Muckle ill he said about liim, 
Muckle fury on him spent ; 

Hintit that a raip wad suit him, 
Better far than aught he kent. 

Dka time he met wi' Mary, 
Robin's character he tore ; 

Thinkin' thus his point to carry. 
Blackest falsehoods Charlie swore. 

Whan, in spite o' a' his knavery, 
Mary soon her han' bestow'd, 



48 KOBIM AND MART. 

In a fit o' fiendish bravery, 

Vengeance wi' an aith he vow'd. 

She, by falsehood's black inventions. 
Wham he thocht to lead astray, 

Shelter'd fi-ae his vile intentions, 
Lust to Malice soon gave way. 

Yet he artfiilly conceal'd it, 
'Neath a hypocritic wing ; 

Secret in his soul he seal'd it, 
Deadly as the serpent's sting. 

Nane see prone to pity Mary, 
Doom'd to toil her days awa : 

O' their strictures few sae wary^ 
Whan they spak' o' Broomyha'. 

Yet an unco alteration. 

Soon was seen in Charlie's leuk ; 
Whyles he pictur'd deep vexation, 

Whyles he startit, whyles he shook. 

Neebours roun' amaz'd to see him 
Chang'd sae sudden an' sae sair, 

Wonder'd what on earth could gie him 
Sic a load o' seemin' care. 

Weel they kent his savage nature ; 

Yet they couldna guess the cause 
That had changed his ilka feature, 

Made him waur than e'er he was. 



ROBIN AND MARY. 49 

Mony baseless, vague conjectures, 
Pass'd amang them, he and she ; 

Mony dialogues and lectures. 
Fruitless as a withered tree. 

Meantime, frae his occupation, 

Charlie aft wad bide awa', 
Plungin' deep in dissipation, 

'Mang the knights o' Bacchus' ha'. 

Drinkin', swearin', fechtin', wenchin', 

'Mang creation's verra wreck, 
Nursin' aye his foul intention, 

Robin's ruin to eflfeck. 

Nicht an' day for weeks thegither, 

He was seldom seen at hamc — 
Vexin' sair a widowed mithcr, 

Wha was aye a prudent dame. 

Sic a sudden alteration. 

On her only earthly stay, 
Caused her mucklc lamentation, — 

Hastened on her dying day. 

Aften tears o' secret sorrow 

Trickled down her withered cheek, 

When he left his spade or barrow, 
Vilest company to seek. 

Lanely greetin' by the ingle. 
At the eerie midnight hour, 
5 



50 ROBIN AND MARY. 

Sighs an' prayers she afl wad mingle, 
Till she sunk upon the floor. 

Health and strength forsook her daily ; 

Yet she strove to seem the same, 
Thinkin' that his fit o' folly 

Soon wad be owercome by shame. 

Vain delusion ! deep an' deeper 
Charlie plunged into the mire ; 

Careless o' the widowed weeper. 
Aye he nursed his foul desire, 

Wha can paint a mither's bosom. 
Pierced by the son she bore ? 

Saftest feelings, wha disclose 'em, 
Thus in pieces rudely tore ? 

He wha thinks he can, may paint her 
In her cottage where she stood, 

Doomed to sec her afFspring enter 
Reekin' red wi' human blood 1 

Backward starts the muse in terror. 
Nature shudders at the scene ; 

Yet that sickening sight o' horror 
Met a widowed mither's een. 

Charlie German, drunk and dreepin'. 
Entered at the midnicht hour, 

Like a madman frantic leapin* 
Benward on his mither's floor. 



ROBIX AND MARY. 51 

What had been his nicht's transaction, 

Afterwards may be reveal'd; 
But his mither's deep distraction, 

Meantime mauna be conceal'd. 

Had she seen his eyelids steekit, 

Never mair to ope again ; 
Had she seen him stiff an' streekit, 

'Twadna gien her half sic pain. 

" Charlie, Charlie I" twice she utter'd, 

Startin' breathless frae her seat; 
" Charlie I" ance again she muttter'd, 

Sinkin' senseless at his feet. 

Why again to sorrow wake her ? 

Why reveal her reason fled ? 
Seven days, an' death did take her 

To the mansions o' the dead. 

Ither seven saw her hallan, 

Emptied by a public sale ; 
An' her cow by Robin Allan, 

Bought an' led across the vale. 

Wi' the produce in his pocket, 
Charlie sought the nearest shore, 

Soon was in a hammock rockit, 
Where Atlantic billows roar. 

In Jamaica soon he pantit, 

Whare we leave him for a while. 



52 ROBIN AND MARY. 

By his guilty conscience hauntit. 
Far frae Britain's bonnie isle. 



PART IV. 



Wake, my muse, an' weeping warble ; 

Wake again an' sadly sing : 
Scenes wad pierce a heart o' marble. 

Yet maun weigh thy weary wing. 

Dark December's gloomy mornin'. 
Slowly dawn'd on Broomyha' ; 

Boreas, a* discretion scornin', 

Fiercely whirPd the driftin' sna\v> 

Robin Allan, busy thrashin', 

Thocht what sailors had to dree ; 

An' the thocht came on him llashin' — 
Charlie German 's on the sea. 

'Mang the sheaves his flail he shot it, 
Sighin', sought the ingle stane : 
" Mary — I had maist forgot it — 
Charlie German sail'd yestreen. 

« Sic a day ! For a' his drinkin' — 

A' the fash he gae to you, 

Yet I canna keep frae thinkin' 

What he has to suffer noo. 



ROBIN AND MARY. 53 

« Friday gloamin whan we partit, 
After I had paid the cow, 
Sad he seemed an' broken-heartit, 
Scarcely could he say Adieu. 

" Downward to the grun he leukit, 
Shunnin' ilka body's e'e, 
An' the thocht, I canna brook it, 
What he noo may hae to dree. 

" Gude gae wi' him ower the water, 
Guard an' guide him ilka where ; 
Whare on earth 's the human creature. 
Free frae failin's less or mair ?" 

Mary sighed, an' sadly Icukin', 
Press'd her bairnie to her breast : 
" Robin, Charlie's leuk was skookin', 
Seven towmons past at least. 

" Towmons five ere we were married, 
First I kent him at Glenlace : 
Ilka body said he carried 
Roguery stampit in his face. 

" A' his deeds we hinna heard o' — 
Gude forgie me for the thought — 
But I fear we'll soon get word o' 

Some mischief that Charlie's wrought." 

Robin sighed an' fell a-pickin', 
Frae his hose the curlin' caff — 
5* 



54 ROBIN AND MART. 

Hark ! against llie door cam knockin' 
Some unceremonious staff. 

Quickly but the house he trampit, 
An' the door did open fling ; 

Three chiels forward on him jumpit, 
In the name o' George the King ! 

Judge his sudden consternation, 
Fancy Mary's reason maim'd, 

By the awfu' information — 

" Robin, ye're for murder blamed !" 

Fancy billows in her bosom, 
Heavin' like the stormy sea, 

Seek her image in the blossom. 
Struck by lightning frae the tree. 

Fancy a', for, like the painter, 

Here the muse maun veil her grief. 

An' to jail wi' Robin venture, 
Catchin' at the sad relief. 

Him, whasc ilka word an' action 
Sprang frae virtue's sacred source ; 

Him, whase very warst transaction 
Ne'er had rakit up remorse. 

Him a prisoner we trace noo, 
Far frae bonnie Broomyha', 

Doom'd, though innocent, to face noo 
A' the rigour o' the law. 



ROBIN AND MARY. 55 

Frae his Mary's heart they tore him, 

Forc'd him frae his bairnie dear, 
To the county jail they bore him — 

Ne'er in pity shed a tear. 

In a dark an' dismal dungeon, 

Fast in irons there he lay, 
Deeper doun in sorrow plungin', 

Ilka sad succeedin' day. 

Prison'd thus on fause suspicion, 

Innocence was aye in store ; 
Yet his Mary's sad condition, 

Gnaw'd his bosom to its core. 

She, his only earthly treasure, 

Left, alane her waes to weep, 
Langsome days an' nichts to measure. 

By her sabs o' sorrow deep. 

Ablins noo 'mang strangers cravin' 

Shelter to her hamcless head. 
Ablins in a mad-house ravin', 

Ablins laid amang the dead. 

A' the ills that e'er befell him. 

Half sic pain could never gie ; 
Chains and fetters he could thole 'em ; 

But sic thochts he couldna dree. 

Yet he daily ower them pondcr'd, 
Mair than ower his fetter'd feet ; 



56 ROBIN AND MARY. 

Daily, nichtly wept and wonder'd, 
Gin they e'er again should meet. 

Daily in his dungeon kneelin', 
Prayers he offered up sincere, 

A' his inmost soul revealin', 
Mixed wi' resignation's tear. 

Four lang months — his trial waitin', 
Thus in prison Robin lay ; 

Thochts o' Mary ne'er abatin,' 
Aflen for her did he pray. 

Whare she was, or dead, or livin', 
Naething certain reached his ear, 

Tho' by a' his means he'd striven 
After information clear. 

Never thocht he she was pinin', 
Scarce a fathom frae his side, 

In the nearest cell adjoinin', 
There her trial to abide. 

Yet she languish'd in that same place. 
Like himsel', for murder blamed ; 

Or, at least, as his accomplice — 
Just as like to be condemned. 

On their innocence relyin'. 

Here we'll leave the hapless pair, 

Till the music, sadly sighin'. 
Trace the cause o' a' their care. 



ROBIN AND MARY. 57 



PART V. 



Little drouthy Davie Riddle, 
Dwalt a mile frae Broomyha' — 

Aften left his hame to fuddle 

Days an' weeks, an' months awa. 

'Neath Britannia's ensign, Davie 
In his younger days did stan', 

An' aboard the Royal Navy, 

Fought vrhere Parker led the van. 

In the Dogger-bank engagement, 
'Gainst the Dutchmen fcchtin' keen ; 

Snap I — without the least prcsagement- 
Davie's arm awa was tacn. 

Frae the service thus disabled, 
Hame to Scotland he did steer ; 

Gat a pension duly tabled, 
Ilka quarter o' the year. 

Maist in Bacchus' ha' he spent it. 

As we hintit ance afore ; 
Ne'er to gill nor jug was stentit. 

Whan he met a drouthy core. 

Ance upon a pay-day gloamin'. 
He wi' Charlie German met ; 

Baith sat down to tankards foamin'. 
An' to toddy reekin' het. 



58 ROBIN AND MARY. 

Davie, ne'er to truth restrickit, 
Tauld the wonders he had seen — 

How he had three Frenchmen kickit, 
Single handit, a' alane ; 

How that day his arm he lost it, 
'Stead o' shrinkin' frae the fray. 

At a Dutchman's head he toss'd it, 
Shoutin', " Death or victory !" 

Charlie plied him wi' the drappy, 
Call'd anither mutchkin ben ; 

Davie, gettin' fu' an' happy, 

" Fought his battles o'er again." 

Three lang days they spent thegither, 
Bathin' deep in Bacchus' bluid, 

Pledgin' health to ane anither, 

Syne they hameward teuk the road. 

Mirk the nicht o' cauld November, 
Fierce an' loud the tempest blew ; 

Neebors roun' had sunk to slumber, 
As the drunkards hameward drew. 

Hapless Davie, little drcadin' 

Sic a sudden fatal fa', 
'Neath his comrade soon lay bleedin'. 

On the brae o' Broomyha'. 

Lang an' teuch the struggle lastit — 
Baith were bleedin' in the strife — 



ROBIN AND MARY. 59 

Roun' an' roun' they turn'd an' twistit, 
Till poor Davie lost his life ! 

Charlie, ance victorious ower him, 

Seized his pension, ilka plack, 
Downward to the burnie bore him, 

Plung'd him in, an' hame did pack. 

There, aside the weepln' willows, 

Davie's mangled body lay, 
'Neath the burnie's waefu' billows, 

For a fortnicht an' a day. 

On the day it was discover'd, 

Charlie, to the sea had fled ; 
An' suspicion, quickly hover'd 

O'er poor Robin's hapless head. 

Soon as he in jail was fetter'd, 

Fast the information flew ; 
Far an' near it soon was scatter'd, 

Like the news o' Waterloo. 

Some, in pity, wadna trust it ; 

Some believed it, ilka word ; 
Ither some to Mary hastit, 

Consolation to aflford. 

^lang the rest, a worthless strumpet, 

(Jenny Burker was her name,) 
To the Shirra quickly trampit — 

Swore that Robin was to blame I 



60 ROBIN AND MARY, 

A' her hellish deposition, 

Basely wi' her name she signed ; 

Nane had then the least suspieion, 
What was lurkin' in her mind. 

Charlie German weel had paid her — 
She his doxy late had been ; 

An', tho' conscience sure gainsaid her. 
She resolv'd to stan' his frien'. 

On her hameward route she stoppit. 
For a while at Broomyha', 

An' ahint the aumry droppit 
Davie's watch, e'er Mary saw. 

Ower the hellish deed rejoicin', 
Aff she trampit through the snaw, 

Thocht it wad be maist surprisin', 
Gin poor Robin scap'd the law. 

Thus, sin' first the subtile serpent, 
Wan the day in Eden's bower, 

Mony a deadly dart's been sharpen'd, 
By his hypocritic power. 

Little kens the sinless lammie, 
(Emblem meet o' Mary May) 

As it dances roun' its mammie, 
Whan the wolf upon't may prey. 

Innocence has nac suspicion — 
Never dreads or harm or blame. 



ROBIN AND MARY. 61 

Judgin' by its ain condition, 
Deems the warld a' the same. 

Thus it was wi' mournfu' Mary, 

Frae the least suspicion free, 
By the ingle sittin' sorry, 

Jenny's guilt she didna see. 

Soon a party frae the city. 

Searched the house o' Broomyha', 

Found the watch, an' bound by duty. 
Took poor Mary May awa. 

Soon in prison strong they lodg'd her, 

Yet she didna shed a tear : 
Guilty as the warld judg'd her, 

She had sweetest comfort near. 

What though man was tlms besiegin', 

Baith her life an' liberty, 
Innocence an' dear religion 

Sets the fetter'd captive free. 

Calm, within her gloomy station, 
Doun she knelt in fervent prayer ; 

Syne, wi' childlike resignation, 
Trustit to her Father's care. 

Yet she deeply felt for Robin — 

Lang'd to see him ance again, 
Aflen thought she heard him sobbin', 

Broken-heartit, a' alane. 
6 



ROBIN AND MARY. 

Then it was, on pity's altar, 

Fountains frae her e'en did fa' — 

Then wad Resignation falter 
Haply for an hour or twa. 

Reader, shall we forward venture ? 

Hark the trumpet's brazen blast ! 
See the judges slowly enter — 

Trial day arrives at last. 



PART VI. 



April, show'ry, saft, and sunny, 
Chid awa the ling'rin' snaw ; 

Buds, an' brier, an' daisies bonnie, 
Sprang again at Broomyha'. 

Ower the dewy meadows prancin', 
Back an' fore, an' up an' doun, 

Sportive lammies, lightly danein', 

Chas'd their neebours roun' an' roun' 

Birdies sang on ilka bramble, 
Midges danc'd in ilka glen, 

Bairnies on tiie braes did tumble, 
Wrinkl'd age grew young again. 



ROBIN AND MART. 63 

Lasses modest, chaste an' pretty, 
Sought again the " trystin' tree," 

Echo answered mony a ditty — 
But my hero, where is he ? 

Hark the awfu' solemn sentence ! 

Robin Allan's doom'd to die. 
Jenny Burker, past repentance, 

Heard the same without a sigh I 

Mary, too, poor, hapless creature, 

Heard her doom pronounc'd the same, 

Yet she didna change a feature — 
Only bow'd her feeble frame. 

Thus their days on earth were number'd — 

Hope itsel' grew hopeless noo ; 
Yet, though Justice lang had slumber'd, 

Guilt was doom'd to meet its due. 

Frae the trial hame returnin', 

Guilty Jenny tint her way, 
Deep she plunipit bog an' burn in, 

Led by darkness thus astray. 

Early on the day succeedin'. 

By some lab'rers she was found 
In a quarry, bruis'd and blcedin'. 

Scarcely fit to raise a sound. 

To the nearest house they bore her, 
An' a doctor soon did ca' ; 



64 ROBIN AND MARY. 

But 'twas plain he couldna cure her — 
Life was ebbin' fast awa'. 

This she felt ; an' conscience leapin' 
Frantic frae its deadly sleep, 

On her guilty soul cam' sweepin'. 
Like the waves ag^ainst the steep. 

Yesterday, Temptation bore her 

Robin's life to swear awa ; 
Death an' judgment close afore her, 

She, to-day, wi' terror saw. 

Cover Guilt wi' hugest mountain — 
Wrap it in the darkest night — 

Plunge it in the deepest fountain, 
Soon or late it comes to light. 

Ere her latest breath departit, 
Jenny a' her guilt revealed : 

Folk wi' deep amazement heard it, 
After 'twas sae lang conceal'd. 

Think on Robin's deep emotion. 
Whan the news to prison flew, 

Forth he pour'd his heart's devotion, 
Purer than the mornin' dew. 

Mary's feelings, scornin' leisure, 

Flutter'd tlirough an' through her breast 

Hope an' fear, an' pain an' pleasure. 
Fast on ane anither prest. 



ROBIN AND MARV. G5 

Like the sun-scorch'd pretty blossom, 

After showers refreshin' fa', 
Hope at last within her bosom, 

Bloom'd at bonnie Broomyha'. 

There again she claspit Robin 

To that bosom chaste an' pure, 
Noo nae mair wi' sorrow throbbin', 

But wi' pleasure rinnin' ower. 

There again her bairnie bonnie, 

Smilin' as in days gane by. 
She received it frae its grannie, 

Wi' a' mither's ecstasy. 

There again, aside the ingle. 

Lowly kneelin' on the floor, 
Robin's prayers an' hers did mingle, 

As they daily did afore. 

Meantime, ower the billows sailin', 

For Jamaica's sultry shore, 
Justice, at the last prevailin', 

Doun on Charlie German bore. 

Need we sing about 's arrestment — 

Tell how lang in jail he lay — 
Paint him in his hindmost vestment ? 

No ; we only this shall say : — 

Ere a towmon's termination, 

After truth to light was brought, 
6* 



66 ROBIN AND MARY. 

Charlie's " Last Speech an' Confession," 
Robin for a penny bought. 

As he read them to his Mary, 
Frae his e'en the tears did fa' ; 

Yet his heart was thankfu' — very. 
He was justified by law. 

Five-an'-forty years are fled noo, 
Sin' that happy day he saw ; 

" Lyart locks" adorn his head noo, 
Whiter than the purest snaw. 

Yet he's hale an' happy-heartit, 
Blest wi' sons an' daughters ten — 

Three, indeed, are noo departit. 
Seven yet in life remain. 

Robin an' his brither Francie, 
Baith are craflers up the glen ; 

Mary, Jean, and bonny Nancy, 
A' hac got the best o' men. 

Benjamin, the youngest brither, 

Hauds at hame his father's plough ; 

Bell assists her feeble mither, 
Noo, wi' age, begun to bow. 

What wad Gcordie Cadger think noo, 
Were his head aboon the clay ? 

Wad he frae his wager shrink noo. 
Gin he saw that bonny brae ? 



ROBIN AND MARY. 67 

Ance as ony moorlan', barren, 

Cover'd noo wi' gowden grain, 
Ripe an' ready for the shearin' — 

Robin hasna toil'd in vain. 

After a' that's come an' ganc noo, 

Independent there he dwells, 
An' to neebours roun' the glen noo, 

He this story aflen tells. 

Fame o' late's begun to eke it, 

Wi' the luck o' bonnie Bell — 
She a bride was lately beukit ; 

Wha's she gettin', can ye tell ? 

Wha but honour'd Gilbert Lobban. 

Heir o' bonnie Birkcnshaw ; 
An' he's made my hero Robin, 

Laird for life, o' Broomyha'. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



A DREAM. 

OR STANZAS ADDRESSED TO P W , BEFORE THE AYR- 

SHIRE FESTIVAL IN HONOUR OF BURNS, AUGUST 6tH, 1 844. 

Dear Sir, where winding Ugie rows 

Its bonnie stream through Buchan's howes, 

An' monnie a wild-flower sweetly grows, 

Scarce seen by ane. 
Save lovers leal whan cvenin' vows 

They pledge unseen : 

Here, in a wee bit nameless ha', 
Frae fame an' fortune far awa, 
Contentit wi' my humble fa' 

'Mid toil an' bustle, 
For towmonds five I've tried to blaw 

The Scottish whistle. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 69 

What though I never heard its soun' ?* 
An' what though tuneless ilka tune ? 
My Tibbie's smile was a' the boon 

I tried to win, 
Sae blest I blew frae June to June, 

For love an' fun. 

Nae thoughts had I aboon my lot ; 

A bonnet braid, a russet coat, 

A bannock an' a sweat-earned groat 

Were a' my care, 
Wi' shelter in this humble cot, 

I sought nae mair. 

At times indeed I heaved a sigh 
For some spare brass a book to buy, 
An' aflen loot my caup stand dry. 

Rather than want it ; 
Yet, on the whole, as time ran by, 

I lived contentit. 

My bosom thus wi' peace investit. 
Was ne'er by earthly dool infestit. 
Till ae day lately that I feastit 

On news frac Ayr, 
That sometiiing roun' about it twistit, 

Like threads o' care. 

I read, wi' happy heartstrings beatin', 
That Scotia's sons had plan'd a meetin'. 



* The author here alludes to his deafness. 



70 MISCELLWEOUS FIECES. 

To honour ane whase sangs can sweeten 
Life's cares an' pain, 

An' gie his sons a hearty grcctin' 
On Coila's plain, 

" And sliall not I," I thoughtless cried, 
*' Be there to bid them weel betide, 
And shavv my love, baith deep an' wide, 

For Coila's bard ?" 
My Tibbie shook her head an' sigh'd — 

Alas I 'tvvas hard. 

I e'ed my coat baith patch'd an' bare ; 
I felt my pouches — nought was there I 
" The lang Scots miles" tween this an' Ayr 

I thought upon, 
Then, slowly yielding to despair, 

Began to moan. 

" Alas !" I cried, " 'tis Fate's decree, — 
Though dear his matchless sangs to me, — 
That I shall never, never see 

That wish'd-for boon, 
Nor greet wi' love his children three 

By deathless Doon." 

Nae former care, nor want, nor wae. 
Had e'er unmann'd my bosom sae ; 
I sigh'd awa the langsome day. 

Syne sought my bed, 
An' heartless, hopeless, down did lay 

My aching head. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 71 

Man's langest cares repose at last : 
King Morpheus, faithfu' to his trust, 
His downy mantle o'er me cast, 

As now it sccnis, 
An' led me to, or ablins past, 

" The land o' dreams." 

Methought I wandered by the Doon, 
" Beneath a bright an' bonnie moon." 
An' saw the fairest flowers o' June 

Bloom at my feet. 
Whan Burns appeared wi' holly crown, 

An' did me greet. 

" All hail ! my son," he smiling said, 
While love unfeign'd his looks portray'd, 
" Thou'rt welcome here, whatc'er has made 

Thy feet to roam ; 
With me each brother of my trade 

Shall find a home." 

Wi' love-fraught, deep sincerity, 
" I come," I cried, " to honour thee ; 
I come to join the jubilee 

Now close at hand. 
And welcome home thy children three 

To this thy land. 

" For Scotia's sons hae sworn to meet 
In this thy far-fam'd, lov'd retreat. 



72 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

'Mang woods an' wild flowers blooming sweet, 

Thy sons to see, 
And pour, warm-gushing at their feet, 

Their love to thee. 

" Oh ! Boon's fam'd banks, sae fresh an' fair. 
Are dear to Scotsmen ilka where, 
An' ever-living, laurel'd Ayr, 

Till hills remove, 
Shall claim frae them a parent's share 

O' lealest love. 

" An' ' Logan Braes,' an' ' Banks o' Coil,' 
While Love delights in Beauty's smile, 
Frae Sootia's heart nae care, nae toil 

Shall ever sever, 
An', eke, ' the braes o' Ballochmyle' 

Shall bloom for ever. 

" Nor these alane to thee belang : 

O mony a stream flows through thy sang ! 

Slow, sweet, or clear they glide alang 

Wi' nature's ease. 
Like summer zephyrs whisp'ring 'mang 

Fair Collars trees. 

" Scenes of thy love, scenes of thy care, 

And scenes of inspiration- rare, 

And scenes where thou did'st dauntless dare 

Fell Poverty '. 
O what from Scotia's heart sliall teai- 

Their memory ! 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 73 

" There, on thy Pegasus careering, 

To fame's high temple forward steering, 

Wi' love an' pride she saw thee yeering 

As fancy led ; 
Still in thy path memorials rearing, 

That ne'er shall fade. 

" By nature's fire alone impell'd, 
Thine ardent bosom heav'd and swcll'd ; 
Breaking the strongest bars that seal'd 

The book of fame, 
Then, on its brightest page, thou kneel'd, 

And wrote thy name. 

" Now, on imagination's wing, 

Thy matchless muse alofl would spring, 

Then sweeping every thrilling string 

Of Scotia's lyre. 
From Fancy's highest hills did bring 

Immortal fire. 

" Now, with a patriot's fervour burning, 
Oppression, fear, and danger spurning ; 
Now, with a lover's zeal, returning 

To nature's breast, 
And o'er a "mountain daisy" mourning 

In numbers chaste. 

»' Now on thy country's glory dwelling. 
A hero's soul within thee swelling, 



74 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Anon, in weeping lines bewailing 
Thy Mailie dead, 

Or, in the name o' Death, assailing 

Poor HoruhooWs trade I 

*' Now teaching Bruar Watej- clear 

To warble sweet in Athol's ear 

Its wants an' waes, for many a year 

Ere seen by thee. 
For whilk a thousand hearts revere 

Thy minstrelsy.* 

« Anon, at Beauty's witching shrine, 
Thou pour'st thy numbers, half divine, 
Stealing a heart in ilka line, 

Wi' magic power, 
Till frien's an' faes alike are thine, 

Braid Scotlan' ower. 

*' Thou dipp'st thy pen in tears of wo. 
And sweetly sad thy numbers flow. 



* It is a well-known fact that the Duke of Athol lent 
a favourable ear to the " highest wishes" of Bruar Water, 
as they were sung by Burns, and did 

" shade its banks wi' towering trees, 

An' bonnie spreading bushes." 

For which act, it is natural to suppose, " a thousand 
hearts" have revered both the poet and the noble Duke. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 75 

Like virgin's prayers, when kneeling low, 

Wi' streamin' eyes, 
Beside the bed where, pale as snow. 

Her lover lies. 

" Still glowing with seraphic fire. 
Thou strik'st a loftier, holier lyre. 
Amid the cottar's humble choir, 

On bended knee, 
While angels hovering round admire 

Thy minstrelsy. 

•' O well may Scotia's sons combine 
To honour thee and honour thine, 
Great chieftain o' the northern Nine ! 

'Tis but thy due, 
For mony a garland didst thoa twine 

Around her brow. 

" And, taught by thee, her sons of toil 
With independence tread the soil ; 
Scorning alike the frown or smile 

Of grandeur great, 
But nursing in their heart the while 

Thy numbers sweet. 

" O many a bosom hast thou taught 
To scorn fell Fortune's tricks as naught. 
And many more full-heaving fraught 

With patriot pains, 
To guard the land that Wallace fought 

To save from chains. 



76 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES, 

" See yonder cottar, taught by thee, 
He bends to Heaven the willing knee ; — 
Hating alike hypocrisy 

And hypocrite, 
He pours his soul's sincerity 

At Jesus' feet. 

« O Burns I thy leal-lov'd Caledon, 
Well may she honour such a son. 
And bind the laurel thou hast won 

Around thy head, 
There to remain till time be done 

An' Nature dead. 

« And proud am I to meet thee here, 
And pour my praises in thine ear — 
But s«e !" I cried, " we're drawing near 

The glorious thrang, 
Here's Eglintoun and Wilson dear — 

I'll close my sang." 

At sight of Burns, th' assembly rose, 
And rose the long and loud huzzas — 
So loud, that Nature's steadfast laws 

Disturbed were, 
And I awoke, to weep my woes, 

Far, far frae Ayr. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 77 



LINES 

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF " THE BOOK OF SCOTTISH 
SONG," ON RECEIVING A COPY FROM A LADY. 

Let raisers grasp their hoarded gold. 
Let drunkards quaff their wine ; 

Let fame the hero's deeds unfold, 
Auld Scotia's sangs are mine 1 

The miser's gold can never buy. 

Nor drunkard's wine reveal 
The rapt'rous thrills of purest joy 

That here my heart can feel. 



For every earthly care and wo. 
This, this shall be my cure ; 

Light be the giver's load below. 
And calm her dying hour I 



78 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A FRIEND, ONE OF THE AGENTS 
FOR "THE SHIPWRECKED FISHERMEN AND MARINERS' BENE- 
VOLENT SOCIETY." 

'TwAS winter, and wildly the wind and the waves 
On the rude cliffs were beating and breaking ; 

With the tempest's might, in the darkness of night, 
The towers and the turrets were shaking. 

The sailor's bride on her lone couch lay, 
And she thought on the terrible ocean ; 

And at every shock of the wave on the rock. 
Her fond heart was fraught with emotion. 

Ah ! who shall relate all the pangs that she felt, 

Or tell how her bosom was quailing ? 
For, afar on the deep, where the tempest did sweep, 

She knew that her true love was sailing. 

She felt that the billows, outrageous and rude. 
Were wrathfully roaring around him ; 

And she rais'd to the sky her tear-streaming eye, 
And pray'd, " O from danger defend him !" 

That prayer on the wings of sincerity rose. 
And was heard by the tempest's Controller ; 

The ship struck the strand, but an angel at hand 
Spread his wings o'er the shelterless sailor. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 79 

On the tempest-swept shore, from his home far away, 

Bereaved of his all and a stranger, 
He sunk in despair, but a friend too was there. 

To shelter and shield him from danger. 

'Twas the Shipwrecked Mariners'* Friend that was near, 

A maid of benevolence tender ; 
And her mantle she spread o'er the sad sailor's head, 

As deep o'er his woes he did ponder. 

She lifted him up, and he gazed through a tear. 

New hope in his bosom arising ; 
She clotli'd him, she fed him, on shipboard she led him. 

And homeward she sent him rejoicing. 



THE ORPHAN'S DREAM. 

I DREAMED of my mother, my mother dear. 
And she seemed alive and young ; 

And she wore the clothes she wont to wear 
When round her knees I hung. 

The wincey gown of a bonnie brown. 

And the napkin of tartan hue ; 
And the mutch she wore was white as of yore. 

When she dautit my infant brou. 

E'en the mantle gray round her shoulders lay, 

As she sat by my father's side, 
And I forward ran, and kissed her hand, 

With a wild and childish pride. 



80 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Then she took me up on her saft, safl knee, 
And her breast was a lowe o' love ; 

! her words were like angel's songs to me, 
And I seemed in the bowers above. 

She pressed me close to her bosom pure. 

And I gazed in her saft blue e'e ; 
Then she kissed my cheek — O 'twas heaven, sure, 

That kiss she gave to me ! 

She smiled on my sisters — that smile I'll mind, 
And she smiled on my brother dear ; 

And she said, " O bairns ! be loving and kind 
Whan I'm nae langer hero." 

Then I gazed again in her bonnie blue e'e, 

And a tear was trembling there — 
My e'en grew dim that I couldna see, 

And I wakened in deep despair. 

1 sigh'd whan I thoaglit on the cauld, cauld grave, 

Whare she lowly lies at rest ; 
But the caulder warld the bairns maun brave 
That her arms hae fondly prest. 

But we'll trust in the orphan's Friend above. 
And we'll trust in His promise sure ; 

Though death may quench a mother's love, 
His love will aye endure. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 81 



THE LAST SPEECH, DYING WORDS, AND 
DEATH OF BACCHUS. 

" Even gods must yield'." — Byron. 

'TwAS on a lovely autumn night, 
Whan Luna shed her silver light 
Profusely ower the yellow grain, 
On Buchan's braid an' fertile plain ; 
The air was still — a holy calm 
Sat broodin' on a throne o' balm ; 
The reaper's sang on dale an' hill 
Had died awa', an' a' was still : 
E'en nature's spirit, nestled deep 
Amang the moonbeams, seem'd asleep. 

Wi' mind congenial to the scene, 
I bade my kittle cares guid e'en, 
An' musefully wi' lyre in han', 
Like pilgrim to the Holy Lan', 
I wander'd frae the warld's roar, 
Alang the Ugie's lanely shore. 
A thousan' saft emotions stole 
Athwart my gladly-glowing soul, 
A thousan' tender thochts cam' ower me, 
An' far awa' frae Ugie bore me ; 
While Fancy on her throne serene 
Began to « picture things unseen," 



83 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

An' Mem'ry pondrin' on the past, 
Her treasur'd stores aroun' me cast. 

At length, in moralizin' mood. 
Like ony sage divine I stood, 
An' saw, atween me an' the licht, 
A sturdy, stalwart, staggerin' wicht, 
Wi' mony a zigzag back an' fore. 
Come tumlin' doan to Ugie's shore. 

His face was like the risin* moon;. 
Whan hazy vapours hover roun', 
Or like the sun whan fiery-fac'd 
He's sinkin' in the windy west,. 
Or risin' ower a stormy sea, 
Whan rainbows first attract his e'e : 
An' in his han' a cudgel crookit ; 
Upon its like I never leukit.. 
A simile I canna catch it 
On a' Parnassus' hill to match it ; 
But, by my sang, it was a rung 
Declar'd its master had a tongue j 
Gin stick philosopheis speak true. 
Its marrow coward never drew. 
As doun the brae he stoiterin' cam\ 

He loud began to curse and d , 

An' soon I kent by mony a badge, 
'Twas Bacchus, fu' an' in a rage. 

My heart owercome wi' sudden fricht, 
I turn'd to run wi' a' my micht ; 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 83 

But wonder fast on wonder grew, 
A lovely maiden met my view, 
An' wi' a witchfu', winnin' smile, 
She beckon'd me to stop a while. 
An' whare's the Scotsman ever fled, 
Whan danger threaten'd lovely maid "* 
Or whare's the poet wadna die 
Beneath the licht o' Beauty's e'e ? 
Sae, bravin' fear, I stood amaz'd. 
An' on the peerless damsel gaz'd. 
Her robes were like the purest snaw, 
An' doun in gracefu' faulds did fa', 
An' flowers o' mony a varied hue 
Adorn 'd the ringlets roun' her brow ; 
While roun' her neck, on ribban' strung, 
A medal on her bosom hung. 
Of purest gowd; and, by the same, 
I saw that Temperance was her name. 

But wha may paint the matchless grace 
That play'd serenely ower her face ? 
Or wha may sing the virtues rare 
That nestl'd in her bosom fair ? 
Sae mild an' seraph-like she seera'd, 
I half imagin'd that I dream'd. 
Till wi' an aith the fearfu' rung 
At either her or me was flung ; 
But luckily we 'scapit scaith. 
It whirl'd by an' miss'd us baith. 
While Bacchus backward wi' a tumble 



84 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Gae Ugie's stream an unco jumble. 
But sair for life an' Ian' he faucht, 
Till o' the bank he gat a claucht, 
An' clamert out fu' douce an' dreepin'. 
Quoth I, " My frien' ye've got a steepin' — 
A Rechabite for ance ye're crown'd — 
'Tis pity that ye wasna drown'd." 
Wi' that, his godship's fearfu' rung. 
On Ugie'a stream wi' wrath I flung. 
An' stoutly stood resolv'd to daur 
The rungless hero's windy war. 

But words are weak an' worthless noo, 
To paint the wrath upon his brow ; — 
His rollin' e'en so wildly flashin'. 
His tusky teeth convulsive gnashin'. 
While hissing frae his burnin' soul 
The bleezin' aiths in volleys foul 
Cam' tum'lin' on the startl'd ear — 
Ower foul an' fierce to mention here : 
But there he stood, an' swore pell-mell — 
A terrible embodied hell I 

Asham'd to leuk on sic a wicht, 
The moon withdrew her lovely licht ; 
An' startl'd Nature, erst sae still. 
Began to moan on dale an' hill ; 
The lichtnin' flash'd frj^e cloud to cloud ; 
" The thunder bellow 'd lang an' loud ;" 
The wildert wind wi' mony a shift. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 85 

Gaed whirlin' roun' the low'rin' lift ; 
Frae east to wast by turns it blew — 
Frae north to south anon it flew ; 
While, huge an' dark, ilk reelin' cloud, 
Seem'd pregnant wi' anither flood. 
As thus the drucken debauchee 
Address'd the dauntless maid an' me : 

" Ye lily-fac'd tee-total ! 

Ye pride-puffed, watcr-drinkin' witch ! 

Confound you an' your wat'ry crew, 

Ye've fleec'd me waur than Wafer-loo. 

Tho' tens o' thousan's there did fa', 

I scarcely miss'd tliem in my ha' ; 

But noo, wi' your tee-total tricks, 

It's shun'd as gin it were Auld Nick's : — 

An' you — ye feckless poetaster I 

Your watery muse — may whirlwinds blast'er ! 

'Twas only at the last soiree. 

Ye puffed an' prais'd at ' Congou-bree,' 

An' even rashly daur'd to scorn 

My brither, ' bauld John Barleycorn ;' 

An' sung your sang ower Buchan wide. 

To brak' my trade, an' me deride ; 

An' noo, my rung I" — but here he chokit 

Wi' burnin' rage ; but soon he yokit 

Wi' triple vengeance on his brow. 

Till aiths like hailstanes roun' us flew : 

Tee-totallers — he swore it smack — 

Were hypocrites an' scoundrels black ; 

8 



) MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

An' vow'd, in either prose or rhyme, 
lic'd han' them doun to latest time, 
That generations yet unborn, 
Micht shmi their paths wi' endless scorn. 

Quoth Temperance, wi' a pleasant smile, 
" At sic a task ye needna toil. 
Secure beneath our banner braid. 
We'll a' win there without your aid." 

Convuls'd wi' rage his teeth he gnash'd, 
An' madly on the maiden rush'd — 
Whan hissin' through the troubl'd air. 
The lichtnin' flash'd wi' fearfu' glare, 
Full in his fiend-like fiery e'en, 
An' doun he fell upon the green. 
As fa's beneath the butcher's blow 
The lusty ox, reluctant low ; 
As fa's before the hunter's aim. 
The death-devoted, gaspin' game ; 
So groanin', gaspin', doun did fa', 
The haughty lord o' Bacchus ha'. 

There's something in the human heart. 
That bleeds whan fellow-mortals smart ; 
There's something in our feeble clay, 
That weeps an' wails anither's wae ; 
A fi-ien', a neebor, brither dear, 
When plung'd in pain, draw forth a tear ; 
An' e'en a dounricht sworn foe, 
Will lay our hostile feelings low ; 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 87 



When helpless in the pangs o' death, 
We hear him groan an' gasp for breath ; 
Then sometliing inwardly will gnaw, 
An' Pity's tear unfeigned fa'. 

This truth upon my heart was stampit. 
When tortur'd Bacchus madly thumpit 
Wi' han's and feet the fatal plain, 
An' groan'd an' cried for help in vain. 
Poor devil ! something sad cam ower me, 
To see him dree sic pangs afore me ; 
An' even Temperance shed a tear, 
To see his awfu' en' draw near. 
Transpierced wi' ilka frantic howl, 
Compassion touch'd her inmost soul ; 
An' on his lichtnin'-scorched brow, 
The water cauld she weepin' threw ; 
An' beck'nin' wi' her snawy hand, 
She whispered accents saft an' bland — 
She whispered accents fraucht wi' balm, 
Her tortur'd enemy to calm. 

O Charity ! thy deeds divine. 
Are far aboon a pen like mine ; 
Thy ilka action here on earth, 
Declares to man tliy heavenly birth. 

O Pity I on thy peerless brow 
What healin' virtues mortals view ; 
The hardest heart that beats in man, 
Grows safl aneath thy soothin' han' ; 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES, 

The sternest saul that dwalls in ok}-, 
Maun melt afore thy sunny ray ; 
An' even pain half tynes its sting, 
Whan cover'd wi' thy downy wing. 

These facts by demonstration taught, 
Cam' rushin' on my troubled thought, 
As frae our helpless hero's brow, 
The stormy frowns o' wrath withdrew : 
As calm he turn'd despite the pain 
That rack'd his beatin', burnin' brain — 
As wi' a sigh he rais'd his han'. 
An' thus his latest speech began : — 

" O Temperance, listen, and forgie 
My reckless threats and wrangs to thee ! 
Here, on the verge o' death you see me — 
Ye've seen my rage, my courage, lea' me : 
In half-an-hour yon demon fiend 
That's watchin' for my horrid end, 
Will seize me in his cloven claw. 
An' bear me to his den awa ! 
Oh ! what a life ! I'm gone for ever I 
Oh ! horror — pardon ? never, never I 
How many millions led astray 
By my example, curse the day 
They first gaed tum'lin' frae my dwallin', 
Whaur noo in quenchless flames they're squallin' 
O Temperance ! warn a' livin' mortals 
For evcrmair to shun its portals I" 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 89 

Owercome, his trem'lin' accents fail'd him, 
For Death already had assail'd him. 
'• Oh ! water, water !" twice he moan'd, 
An' syne his breath awa he groan'd. 
But here, alas ! my feeble muse 
Essays in vain to sing the news. 

for a Burns' Herculean power 
To paint his horrid dying hour, 
The warring elements aboon. 
The fiends infernal howlin' roun' I 

1 thocht, in fact, that Ugie's vale 
Was bleezin' in the midst o' hell, 
As 'neath my feet convulsed Terra 
Shook to its centre — shook to Zero — 
As spang across th' affrighted stream, 
Cam' Satan, wi' a fiendish scream, 
An' seiz'd his prey wi' pride profound ; 
While kindred spirits danc'd around, 
As by the ankles twa he swang him. 
An' ower his lusty shouthers flang him. 
But oh ! the dolefii' dread cam' ower me. 
While gazin' on the scene afore me I 

It gars me shudder yet to think o't, 
An' in my tale I daurna link it ; 
But close to Temperance I clung, 
An' on her beatin' bosom hung : 
As clings the sailor to the shroud, 
When wintry winds are roarin' loud ; 
8* 



J)0 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

As clings the limpit to the rock, 
Despite the billow's bounding shock ; 
As clings to life the dying sinner, — 
So clung my ilka nerve upon her. 
Whan on his livin' bier I saw 
The conquer'd lord o' Bacchus' lia'. 
That livin' bier, the Diel himscl' : 
But here I quit the horrid tale. 
Awa his prize he proudly bore. 
Its legs stuck out like horns afore, 
While ower his rumple large an' lang 
The conquer'd hero's carcass hang ; 
An' thus the skaith o' Caledonia, 
He haul'd to " hell's black Pandemonia." 

" Now wha this tale o' truth may read, 
Ilk man an' mither's son tak' heed, 
Whane'er to drink ye are inclin'd, 
Or Bacchus^ Ha' runs in your mind. 
Think ye may buy your joys owcr dear, 
Remember Bacchus on hi& hier^ 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 91 



ODE TO SPRING, 1843, 

WRITTEN ON THE TWELFTH OF APRIL, DURING A SNOW STORM. 

To thee, young- Spring, 
To thee I sing 
My melancholy lay ; 
Thy mantle green, 
I erst have seen, 
Where is it hid to-day ? 
Where are thy songsters and thy flowers 7 
And where. Oh ! where thy balmy bowers ? 

White-rob'd in snow, 
Thy flow 'rets low 
Are bending to the earth. 
Like infants fair 
Of mother's care 
Bereaved at their birth ; 
Thy yet unnumber'd notes of joy 
No cheerful bills to-day employ. 

All, all is sad 
That erst so glad 
Upon thy bosom hung ; 
All, all is gloom. 
Thy virgin bloom 
By dying Winter stung : 
Meet emblem thou of artless maid, 
On self relying, soon betray'd. 



92 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

But thou shalt rise 
And yet rejoice 
In all thy wonted bloom, 
While artless maid, 
Like thee betray'd. 
May mourn an early doom. 
And never more revive or sing, 
Like flowers or songsters of the Spring. 



A SAILOR'S ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. 

Hail, Ocean ! to thy swelling breast 
Once more my willing heart is press'd, 
And once again my soul's at rest. 
To feel thee bounding under me. 

Condemned to languish long on shore, 
I stranded lay 'mong classic lore, 
But now, I'll never leave thee more, 
Thou place of my nativity. 

O Ocean ! on thy bosom spread. 
How happy was my infant bed ; 
Thy midnight murmurs round my head 
Supplied a mother's lullaby. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 93 

And I have hung upon thy breast, 
A ship-boy on the quivering mast, 
And looks of love upon thee cast, 
My bosom glowing thrillingly. 

And thou hast met my feasting view, 
When day his dazzling liglit withdrew. 
Reflecting from tliy bosom blue 
The midnight heaven's serenity. 

And I have lov'd thee with my soul. 
When Boreas bade thy billows roll. 
When frantic rushing from the pole. 
He madly bounded over thee. 

Nor was my heart against thee scal'd, 
When all thy wratli I saw rcveal'd, 
When mountain billows rag'd and reel'd, 
Before the tempest's majesty. 

When flash'd the lightning from the cloud. 
When roar'd the thunder long and loud. 
When every wave appear'd my shroud, 
Still, still I lov'd thee tenderly. 

And I will love thy every wave. 
And dauntless all tliy dangers brave. 
Till in thy womb I find a grave, 
And see unveil'd eternity. 



94 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



ADDRESS TO MY AULD PIPE. 

" Come, ponder well, for 'tis no jest ; 
To laugh it would be wrong." — CowpER. 

Unflinchin' frien', my guid auld cutty, 
Hail to thy visage black an' sooty ! 
Inspir'd by frien'ship, love, an' duty, 

Wi' tearfu' e'e. 
This hamely, heartfelt, dolefu' ditty 

I sing to thee. 

Thy neck — wi' sorrow be it spoken — 
Thy neck, lang hale, at last is broken : 
Alas J ower true's the sad, sad token 

That we maun part. 
An' deep's the wound the thocht has stricken 

In my puir heart 

Thou wast a cutty deeply dear ; 
I gat thee frae a crony queer, 
An' for his sake, frae year to year 

I hain'd thee tentie. 
But noo thou'rt streekit on thy bier, 
^ An' I lament thee. 

Sax towmons noo hae onward tram pit. 
Sin' first my teeth thy stumpie stampit, 



• MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 95 

An' faithless frien's hae aflen dampit 

My e'en sin' then ; 
An' noo my hindmost hope is swampit, 

Sin' thou art gane. 

Thy weel-kent, changeless, sooty cheek, 
How kindly on me wad it keek, 
As roun' an' roun' thy whirlin' reek 

Took mony a turn ; 
But noo thou'rt gane ower life's last creek, 

An' I maun mourn. 

Nae mair thou'lt cheer my dowie heart, 
Whan pierc'd by fell Miss Fortune^s dart ; 
Nae mair thou'lt ply tiiy healin' art, 

Whan frien's forsake me. 
Nor act a pilot's skilfu' part, 

Whan storms owertake me, 

Nae mair, inspir'd by thee I'll sing, 
Like merry lark in cheerfu' spring ; 
My muse, alas ! maun droop her wing, 

In wintry gloom, 
Or trem'lin' touch some plaintive string, 

An' mourn thy doom. 

Nae mair, whan Summer smiles serene, 
I'll wander blythe at dewy e'en — 
Musin' alang the meadows green, 

'Mang daisies bonnie ; 
But, cheerless by the ingle stane, 

I'll thee bemoan aye. 



96 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Nae mair, aneath September's moon, 

On Ugie-side I'll lay me doun ; 

My cares a' crush'd, an' thee in tune, 

To croun my joys — 
But heartless ower thy fate I'll croon, 

An' sever'd ties. 

Nae mair in winter, wild an' drear, 

To welcome in the infant year, 

I'll meet 'mang kindred cronies dear. 

By some blythe ingle — 
In ither scenes, wi' mony a tear, 

I noo maun mingle. 

Thee, Friendship's gifl, nae mair in time. 
Thy sooty wa's I'll scrape and prime. 
Or han' thee roun' in Friendship's clime, 

'Mang brithers dear — 
But mourn thy fate in prose an' rhyme, 

Frae year to year. 

Inspir'd by thy delicious reek, 
Swellin' within my gratefu' cheek — 
How afl upon the moorlan' bleak, 

Baith ear' an' late, 
I've cheerfu' toil'd frae week to week — 
A match for fate I 

Whan cares or crosses cam' athwart me, 
Whan thochts despondent hauflins w^aur'd me. 



MTSCELLANEOUS PIECES. 97 

Or Fate, the limmer ! danc'd an' daur'd me, 

Her neck to thraw — 
Twa whiffs o' thee hae aflen gart me 

Owerthrow them a\ 

Whan plungin' deep in miry stanks, 
Wi' raggit breeks an' plastert shanks, 
Whan tum'lin' doun cam' baith the banks,* 

An' amaist smor'd me ; 
Withouten thee, Miss Fortune's pranks 

Had surely waur'd me. 

Whan hameward ploddin' frae my toil, 
'Neath Winter's war or Summer's smile; 
Thou shorten'd aye the langsomc mile. 

Though often weary I — 
'Twas thine ilk sorrow to beguile, 

An' keep me cheery. 

Content wi' thee, an' Tibby's smile, 
I snapt my thumbs at Fate the while ; 
Smilin' at Peel an' taxes vile, 

I careless sang — 
Weel pleas'd that independent toil 

Was naething wrang. 



* The author was one day working in a drain, five feet 
eep ; and, owing to his deafness, would certainly have 
een smothered beneath a portion of the bank, which 
ave way, had not a fellow-labourer providentially pulled 
im from beneath the falling mass, just in time to save 
is life. 

9 



98 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

But fairest flowers at last maun wither, 
An' dearest frien's maun part frae ither ; 
The stately ship that lang did weather 

The Borean blast, 
Besieg'd by wind an' waves thegither, 

Aft sinks at last. 

An' thou art gane, my cutty dear ! 
An' I maun shed the sad saut tear : 
Lat thochtless mortals mock an' jeer 

My sorrow deep — 
I heed them not, but ower thy bier 

My loss I'll weep. 

An' this, thy humble monument, 
Some future day " in guid black prent," 
Forth to the warld it sail be sent, 

'Mang great an' sma' ; 
That a' thy virtues may be kent 

Whan I'm awa'. 

Sail monuments, in mock'ry, rise 

To monarchs, monkeys and magpies — 

Sail letter'd marble flatter flies 

That stung the world — 
An' poet's pipe, whane'er it dies, 

Be earth-ward hurl'd ? 

No ! by ray ardent bosom throes, 
Thy fame, sweet soother o' my woes, 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



Sail live till Nature's eyelids close 
On Terra's time — 

Though moths an' critics creep in rows 
On this my rhyme ! 



TO A LARK ESCAPED FROM A HAWK.* 

"Be not the muse ashamed here to bemoan 
Her brothers of the grove." — Thomson. 

Wee flutterin', pantin', breathless guestie ! 
Thou'rt vt^elcome to my humble feastie ; 
Yon hungry hawk fu' fleet hath chas'd thee 

Ower dale an' hill, 
Far frae thy canty, cosy nestie, 

Thy bluid to spill. 

But here at last, wee, welcome stranger, 
Thou'rt free frae a' impendin' danger ; 
For, should the cruel, ruthless ranger 

Here shaw his fangs. 
This han' shall be the sure avenger 

O' a' thy wrangs. 

* One day in spring, while I was seated at dinner, 
along with two friends, the door of ray " hallan" being 
open, the little poetic stranger flew in, and, alighting on 
the table before us, sunk down quite exhausted, but soon 
revived. 



100 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Oh ! how thy little heartie's jumpiu', 
Against thy downy bosom thumpiu', 
Like infant feetics nimbly trampiu', 

Whan fears annoy ; 
But noo thou'rt safe, nae mair be dampin' 

Thy wonted joy. 

% 

' A captive here in cage o' mine, 

Thy free-born heartie ne'er sail pine ; 
'Twad grieve me sair to see thee dwine 

An' droop by me, 
Or mournin' ower thy lost " langsyne" — 

It maunna be ! 

Thoul't see again thy downy brood — 
Thou'lt sing again in sprightly mood, 
Far up aside yon fleecy cloud 

That shades the lea ; 
Sae dinna mourn, for I'll mak' good 

Thy liberty. 

An' next whan Spring, the lovely maid, 
Comes smilin' on wi' gracefu' tread, 
To spread her new poetic plaid 

On moor an' lea, 
I'll ablins list, wi' heart richt glad, 

Thy minstrelsy. 

Thy sang — Oh ! could I hear thy sang, 
Whilk noo has been denied me lang, 
'Twad soothe, I ween, the sharpest pang 
I e'er may dree, 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 101 

An' raise, my bosom cords amang, 
A matchless glee. 

But truce — what fruit can wishes bring ? 
Ilk sunny morn, in sportive Spring, 
Whan skyward on thy dewy wing 

I see thee rise, 
I'll fancy that I hear thee sing, 

An' sae rejoice. 

For man, bereav'd o' pleasures real. 
Is prone to cling to the ideal; 
. E'en hirplin' twafauld, auld an frail, 

Ayont fourscore, 
He'll cling to hope, but hope maun fail. 

An' a' pass ower. 

Sae fare-thee-weel, thou warbler sweet. 
We ablins never raair may meet — 
Fly as we will, nae safe retreat 

We'll find frae death, 
An' he, than hungry hawk mair fleet, 

Pursues us baith. 



THE WANDERER. 

Whan Boreas swept the frozen plain, 
An' lash'd the wrathfu' sea : 

One evening as the sun gaed down 
Ower snaw-clad Benachie. 
9* 



102 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Fu' glad to see the murky shades 

O' nicht begin to fa', 
I left my toil on weary shanks, 

An' sought my humble ha'. 

Wi' glecsome smiles, the wee-things ran, 

To bid me welcome hame ; 
An' pensive by the ingle cheek, 

I set me down fu' tame. 

I thocht upon the hameless poor — 

The sailors on the sea — 
I blest my lot, an' e'ed wi' pride, 

My bairnies' sportive glee. 

Whan ben the floor wi' feeble steps. 

An' shiv'rin' wi' the caul', 
An aged man wi' lyart locks, 

Upon a staff did crawl. 

" Guid evenin'," faltert frae his lips, 

" Guid evenin' to you a' ; 
I'm weary battlin' wi' the blast. 

An' fain my breath wad draw." 

I plac'd a chair aside the fire. 
An' bade him welcome ben ; 

" Sit down, my frien', this norlan' blast 
Ye maunna face again. 

" The shelter o' my humble bield, 
For ae short nicht you'll share ; 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 103 

I yet may wander like yoursel', 
Tho' better noo I fare." 

The stranger sigh'd, an' sync his han' 

Athwart his ample brow, 
As if in meditation deep, 

He slowly, sadly drew. 

Again he sigh'd, an' thus began : — 

*' I hope you never will ; 
Yet I, whan in my tearless teens, 

Stood higher on life's hill. 

" An' noo, fu' thankfu' here I rest 

At threescore years an' ten — 
We little ken whan mornin' dawns. 

What way the day may en'. 

" Whan youth fu' passions, fierce and strong, 

Our early actions sway ; 
However bricht our mornin' dawn. 

Dark, dark may be our day. 

" My story — gin ye kent it a', 

Micht be a lesson guid ; 
I've smil'd in pleasure's sunny paths. 

An' sigh'd 'neath sorrow's cloud. 

" My father was a wealthy laird. 

Had ne'er a son but me ; 
An' early frae the paths o' vice. 

He taught me far to flee. 



104 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

" My mither's love was like the sea, 

A deep unfathom'd tide ; 
An', while she liv'd, my days an' years 

Awa' did pleasant glide. 

" I lov'd a maid, the fairest far, 
That ever smil'd on man ; 

An' waited but a year to claim 
Her promis'd heart an' han'. 

" Excuse the tear that's in my e'e — 
Those happy days are gane : 

Yet raem'ry, sadly leukin back, 
Conjures them up again — 

" I yet can see her smiles divine, 
An' hear her whispers sweet ; 
But why upon them linger here ? 
Nae mair on earth we'll meet. 

" I then was in my twentieth year, 

Esteem'd an' lov'd by a'. 
Whan clos'd by death my father's e'en 

Wi' unfeign'd grief I saw. 

" Upon his new-clos'd, narrow grave 
The autumn leaves did fa', 

An' on my mither's by his side. 
White fell the winter snaw, — 

" While I an orphan laird was left, 
A while to grief resign'd ; 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 105 

But soon, alas ! their mem'ry dear 
Was banish'd frae my mind. 

" Allur'd by Flattery's deadly smiles, 
An' Guile's deceitfu' ray, 
My unsuspectin' heart was led 
Frae Virtue's paths astray. 

" The titl'd sons o' lordly fame 

I joined in fatal hour, 
An' deep in dissipation plung'd, 

Owercome by Bacchus' power. 

" My Helen — Virtue's fairest flower — 

I strove to lead astray : 
She justly spurn'd me frae her breast, 

An' soon slept in the clay. 

" On, on I went, yet faster on 

I urged ray mad career ; 
The closin' scene o' a' my hopes 

Was Helen on her bier. 

" Reflection's sting I strove to blunt 

Wi' wine's delusive power : 
I sought relief ay ont the sea, 

But found no pleasant hour. 

" In midnight revels 'mang the gay. 
Her image still was there. 
An' ower my brichtest moments threw 
A sable shade o' care. 



106 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

" I smiled to hide the startin' tear, 
An' sang to choke the sigh ; 

I drank to drown the saddenin' thochts 
O' happy days gane by. 

" I chased Despair frae clime to clime, 
Ower continent an' sea, 
As if I frae my wretched self 
Had then resolved to flee. 

" I sought the company o' those 
The virtuous strove to shun ; 

But, in a few short years at maist, 
The race o' folly's run. 

« In prison I for debt was lodg'd, 

An' soon, alas ! I saw 
A stranger lawfully allow'd 

To claim my father's ha'. 

" Remorse an' shame assailed me noo, 

In prison whare I lay ; 
I fought wi' horrid dreams by nicht, 

An' dismal thochts by day. 

« Religion — noo my only stay — 

Was then forgot by me ; 
I couldna leuk for mercy then, 

Nor to my Saviour flee. 

" But as the calm succeeds the storm. 
An' winter yields to spring, 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 107 

The conflict o' my passions ceas'd, 
An' Reason spread her wing. 

" I backward through departit years 

Reflective cast my e'e : 
My father's maxims truer seera'd, 

An' dearer noo to me. 

»' The mem'ry o' my mither dear — 

I durstna linger there : 
I wept — I owned my wretchedness, 

An' tremblin' knelt in prayer. 

«' I cast mysel' on love divine, 
All wretched as I was ; 
I pleaded wi' the Sinner's Frien' 
To plead the sinner's cause. 

« I loath'd the deeds that I had done. 

An' own'd my doom was due ; 
In Mercy's ever-open arms 

Mysel' I weepin' threw. 

" Like moonbeams ower some silent lake, 

Whan tempests cease to blaw, 
Serenely ower my troubled soul 

A holy calm did fa'. 

" I felt again as I had felt 

Whan in my father's ha', 
Ere snares o' vice had led my feet 

Frae virtue's paths awa. 



[08 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

" The liymns, the prayers my mither dear 

In youth had taught me there, 
Cam' sweetly owcr my soul again, 

Like fragrant niornin' air. 

" My thochts, my dreams were changed again 

To what they were of yore. 
Yet aft I sigh'd for liberty, 

An' deem'd it still in store. 

« An' aft I thocht on Helen's grave — 

An' aft the tears wad fa'. 
To think a stranger noo possess'd 

My dear ancestral ha'. 

" Thus days, an' weeks, an' months flew on. 
Till sax lang years had pass'd. 

Then dying Hope reviv'd again 
On Freedom's breast at last. 

" I left the prison's lanely gloom. 

While tears fell frae my e'e ; 
The fields — the flowers — the fragrant air, 

Were Paradise to me. 

" Sae potent was the magic spell 
That sway'd my feelings then, 

I quite forgot that I had nought 
On earth to ca' my a in. 

» A simmer day I wander'd on, 
I kentna whare nor why, 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 109 

Till ance I saw the western clouds 
Assume a ruddy dye. 

" Like ane that frae a pleasant dream 

Awakes to find it fause — 
I, startin', stood an' sadly mus'd, 

An' wondered whare I was. 

" The truth, alas ! the bitter truth, 

Disturb'd ray spirit's rest ; 
I felt my sadly-sinkin' heart 

Grow heavy in my breast. 

»' The peasant's hours o' toil were ower, 

He sought his lanely ha' ; 
Whare lealest love a welcome gae 

To wile his cares awa. 

" Ilk little birdie sought again 

Its fav'rite bush or tree ; 
But a' the warld, though wide it was, 

♦ Was hameless like to me.' 

" I winna linger on the thochts 

That crossed my bosom then — 
I wept the weary hours awa, 

Till mornin' dawn'd again. 

" Oh I what is man, wi' a' his pride, 

Whan frien'less left to sigh ? 
Whan nae kent face, wi' Welcome's smile, 

Illumes his bosom's sky ? 
10 



110 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

" Whan, 'mid tlic busy, bustlin' thrang, 

He feels himscl' alane ; 
'Tis solitude mair dreary far 

Than Nature's wildest scene. 

" A frien'less outcast, this I felt, 
As thousands passed me by — 

The hermit in his lanely cave 
Was ne'er sae lane as I. 

«♦ For days an' weeks I wander'd on, 
But nae kent face could see ; 

The crowded street, the mountain glen, 
Were baith alike to me. 

" As slowly sinkin' doun the hill, 
The mist o'erspreads the glen ; 

I felt despondency owerspread 
My lanely breast again. 

" Thocht foUow'd thocht — a gloomy train- 

I wadna name them noo ; 
But nor'ward to my native vale, 

I half reluctant drew. 

" I reached it not — 'twas Fate's decree — 

For, as I onward pass'd, 
Whan least I thocht a frien' to see, 

I met a frien' at last. 

" My father's groom, wi' whom in youth 
Familiar I had been ; 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. Ill 

Oh I how I grasp'd his willin' han', 
An' stood wi' streamin' e'en I 

" The mem'ry o' that meetin' dear. 

Like dew on sun-scorch'd flowers, 
Has afl reviv'd my droopin' heart, 

In sorrow's saddest hours. 

" His ilka word was tenderness, 

His ilka leuk was love ; 
He brooded ower my wretchedness, 

Like tender turtle-dove. 

" He took me to his humble hame. 

An' freely fed me there ; 
He studied ilka word he spake. 

To soothe the wand'rer's care. 

" I couldna speak my gratitude, 

Nor can I speak it yet ; 
But, while I breathe, I'll bless the hour — 

The happy hour we met. 

" It taught me that a man's a man, 

Whate'er may be his fa' ; 
It taught me that in life's low vale, 

Fair virtue's flowers may blaw. 

" It taught me that the plackless hind 

May shame the proudest peer ; 
An' taught me how my future course 

O'er life's rough sea to steer. 



113 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

" Recruited in my health an' strength, 
The next succeedin' spring ; 

Thougli thirty winters I had seen, 
I went to serve the king. 

" What could I do ? — wi' empty purse, 

Nae ither choice had I ; 
Though weel I judged a sodger's path 

Through mony a mire did lie. 

" I've trod it noo, frae en' to en', 
For thirty years an' niair ; 

But time wad fail to tell you a' 
I've seen an' suiFer'd there. 

" I've seen the bravest o' the brave 
Sink mute amang the dead ; 

An' seen my country's standard wave 
Ower rivers rowin' red. 

" I've heard the shout o' victory, 
An' heard the groan o' death ; 

I've seen my comrades by my side 
Fa' lifeless on the heath. 

" I've seen the weepin' widow kneel, 
'Mang gory heaps o' slain. 

To bathe the dyin' sodger's brow, 
On mony a fatal plain. 

" Ah ! little ken some crowned heads, 
An' little wad they trow, 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 113 

What sick'nin' scenes hae met the brave, 
On fields like Waterloo. 

" 'Tis glory a' ! — frae danger free, 

Whan victory's plaudits rise — 
They canna feel the sodger's woun's, 

Nor hear the widovir's cries. 

" Resigned to Fate, I foucht for bread. 

But age stole on apace : 
I bade the 'tented field' adieu, 

To seek some restin' place. 

" But whare shall weary Poortith rest, 

Besieg'd by want and care ? 
The grave alane — the welcome grave, — 

My earthly rest is there. 

" Frae door to door, for towmons ten, 

Through heathy Caledon, 
Contentit wi' my lowly lot, 

I noo hae wandcr'd on. 

" I've met wi' fi-ien's — I've met wi' faes. 

An' though I've aft been bare. 
Religion lang has been my stay, 

An' conquer'd ilka care. 

" I've knelt upon my Helen's grave, 

I've trod my native sward — 
I've wept within my childhood's hame. 

An' own'd my just reward. 
10* 



114 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

" I've spent a thousand pounds a year ; 

I've begg'd the stranger's bread, 
An' prov'd that virtue's paths alane 

To peace an' pleasure lead. 

" Thus far to you my tale I've tauld. 
An' noo a few short miles, 

Alang the weary road o' life, 
Will en' the wanderer's toils. 

" An' oh I my son," — the auld man said. 
An' rais'd a leuk o' love — 
" Whate'er may be thy lot below, 
Seek aye a Frien' above." 



A REAL VISION. 



" Has God disown'd them, the children of toil ? 

Is the promise of Heaven no more ? 
■Shall industry weep ? — shall the pamper'd suppress 

The sweat-earn'd bread of the poor?" 

Thom. 

'TwAS in that season of the year, 
Whan winter wild awa' did steer. 
An' little warblers ower the brier, 

A countless thrang, 
Auld Scotia's heart ance mair did cheer 

Wi' mony a sang. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 115 

The sun, far to the westward gone, 
Had clos'd the day to Caledon, 
An' ower Atlantic regions shone, 

Wi' glorious ray, 
Cheerin' the weary sailor on 

His " watery way." 

Sair wearied wi' the lang day's toil, 
I hail'd the gloamin' wi' a smile, 
An' hamevvard ower the weary mile 

Did slowly draw, 
Intent my sorrows to beguile 

An hour or twa. 

Aboon great Neptune's watery bed, 
The modest moon had rais'd her head, 
While raony a virgin ray owerspread 

The brow of night. 
An' ower my lonely pathway shed 

A welcome light. 

Far frae the busy, bustlin' thrang, 
Auld Ugie's banks I crawl'd alang ; 
My bosom torn wi' mony a pang. 

While ponderin' ower 
The countless wants an' woes amang 

The labourin' poor. 

I sigh'd, an' mus'd, an' sigh'd again ; 
I saw Industry plung'd in pain ; 
I saw Starvation's ghastly main 
Roll ruthless on, 



116 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

An' nane to help the lowly train 
It burst upon ! 

I saw the child laid down to die ; 
I heard the trem'lin' father sigh ; 
I heard the weepin' mother cry 

Aloud for bread ; 
I saw Oppression standing by, 

Wi' lofty head. 

My bosom sicken'd ower the scene ; 
(The trem'lin' frame, the visage lean,. 
That fancy's e'e had clearly seen. 

On truth firm bas'd ;) 
I rais'd my waefu', downcast e'en. 

An' sadly gaz'd. 

Whan, lo ! amazement an' dismay 
Seiz'd on my trembling mortal clay ; 
There standing in my lonely way, 

Some ells awa' 
A female form in white array 

I clearly saw. 

To speak ae word I didna dare, 
But stood an' e'ed the heavenly fair, 
Amaz'd to see a sight sae rare 

On Ugie-side, — 
For ladies seldom wander there 

Without a guide. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 117 

In ilka look I weel could trace 
That she was nane o' Adam's race ; 
A settl'd, serious, heavenly grace 

Was in her air, 
An' ower her sweet celestial face, 

A shade o' care. 

Wi' downcast e'en a while she stood, 
An' ower some sorrow seem'd to brood ; 
Syne shook her head in mournfu' mood, 

An' gaz'd on me ; 
An' as she gaz'd, she sigh'd aloud, 

Wi' tearfu' e'e. 

Nae langer still my heart wad lie : 

I ran her watery e'en to dry. 

Whan, wi' a deeji-drawn, solemn sigh, 

Her lily han' 
She gently rais'd towards the sky. 

An' thus began : — 

" I come from regions far away — 

From regions of eternal day : 

I come," she cried, " I come to say. 

The sons of toil 
Shall tear Oppression's ciiains away 

From Britain's isle. 

" When far above in yonder sky, 
I earthward cast my watchful eye, 



118 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

And saw thee wander pensively 

Along the vale ; 
I knew thy thoughts — I heard thee sigh 

For Britain's well. 

« I saw thy ardent fancy scan 

The wants and woes of brother man, 

While down thy cheek the torrent ran, 

A flood of wo ; 
Warm from the fountain-head of man 

I saw it flow. 

»* I saw thy pictured scenes of wo, 
Without the aid of fancy's glow ; 
I saw Oppression's brutal blow 

Still ruthless fall, 
And make Starvation's waves o'erflow 

Britannia's wall. 

" I saw the rulers of the brave, 
That mighty wall dare to enslave, 
And pluck it up stave afl:er stave, 

Without regret, 
And heedless plunge it in tlie grave 

Their laws had made. 

" I saw the widow's bosom bleed ; 
I heard the orphan beg for bread ; 
I saw Ambition's godless greed 

Tax every loaf; 
Then praise the patience of the dead, 

Whom want cut off ! 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 119 

" I heard the humble sons of toil 
Beg freedom on their native soil ; 
I saw Oppression's haughty smile 

Despise their prayer, 
And drive them from their rauch-lov'd isle, 

To deep despair, 

" All these, and more, I pitying saw : 
The rich man's word a standing law ; 
The poor man's prayer deem'd light as straw — 

Himself a mole ; — 
His liberty — his life awa', 

To crown the whole. 

« Britannia's glory lying low ; 
Her hardy sons toss'd to and fro 
In foreign climes, beneath the glow 

Of sultry suns, 
While still the bitter tide of wo 

Upon them runs. 

" But hark !" she cried, " the tidings hail ; 
The tyrant's iron heart shall quail : 
'Tis sworn on high and cannot fail 

To come to pass, 
The mighty millions yet shall dwell 

In Freedom's house. 

" For I will lead them on," she said, 
" Though here I seem a helpless maid ; 



120 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

My arm hath tyrants oft dismay'd : 

I'll lead them on, 
Till Guilt's inglorious head be laid 

The earth upon. 

" Yes ! I have sworn it where I stand ; 

Proclaim it loudly through the land ; 

For here," she cried, " take thou my hand 

I swear to thee. 
That poor, despis'd, yet dauntless band 

Shall soon be free !" 

" I will proclaim 't," I trembling said ; 
" But what are ye — a helpless maid, 
That dares to crush Oppression's head 

To atoms sma' ?" 
" My name is Justice," she replied ; 

Syne pass'd awa'. 

Wi' giant-strength I clam the hill, 
That tower'd aboon the lowly vale. 
An' proudly rais'd an' rax'd mysel' 

An unco height ; 
Syne loud proclaim'd the glorious tale, 

Wi' a' my might. 

" The mighty millions shall be free. 
And tyrants quail from sea to sea ; 
The mighty millions shall be free," 

I loud did roar ; — 
" The mighty millions shall be free 

For evermore !" 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 121 

An' here I've sung 't in rustic strain, 
That Buchan's sons may hear 't again, 
An' spread the news through ilka glen 

In Britain's isle, 
Till tyrants tame— till Slavery 's slain. 

An' Freedom smile. 



THE SCOTTISH MUSE. 

WRITTEN AS A SMALL BUT SINCERE MARK OF RESPECT FOR 
MR. WILLIAM THOM, INVERURV ; AUTHOR OF "THE BLIWD 

boy's pranks." 

For Caledonia's latest son 

Shall love his minstrelsy, 
And bards unborn shall kneel them down 

And worship Benachie. 

Bards grew sae scarce, the Scottish muse. 

Without a hame ava, 
Was left to wander o'er the lea, 
Wi' waefu' heart, and tearfu' e'e, 

An' nane wad pity shaw. 

By river, stream, an' fountain pure, 

Ilk soul-bewildcrin' scene, 
Whare bards o' yore had wont to stray, 
She afl wad wander, lane an' wae, 

Alang the flowery green. 
U 



in 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES, 

An' there she'd muse an' muse again, 

On happy days gane by, 
An' e'e the spot where some sweet bard 
Had fondly kiss'd her on the sward, 

Wha noo fu' low did lie. 

An' aye the tither waefu' tear, 

Amang the gowans wad fa', 
An' aye tlie tither weary sigh, 
Sae raournfu' tremblin' to the sky, 

Wad waft her soul awa'. 

Owercome at last, she laid her down 

Upon the banks of Ayr, 
Whare Burns had wont to wander wi' her, 
The wanton bard she lov'd sae dear, 

An' mourn'd sae lang an' sair. 

The little songsters hushed their sangs, 

An' tearfu' homage paid ; 
The rising moon wept in the east, 
As on a daisy's downy breast 

Her heavy head she laid. 

"' Dry up yer tears, ye tunefu' thrang. 

An' weep nae mair for me ; 
Ae balmy sleep to soothe my care. 
Syne fare-ye-wecl ' auld hermit Ayr !' 

I'm boun' to cross the sea. 

" Nae mair I'll weep, nae mair I'll sigh — 
There's nane to pity me. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 123 

Adieu, adieu! ye warblers a', 
Tlie strings o' love are snapt in twa. 
That lied my heart to thee. 

" An' what avails the waefu' sigh ? 

The soul-distilled tear ? 
Or what avails the lichtless e'e, 
That looks an' looks, but canna see 

Or Irien' or comfort near ? 

" Sae deeply deep the weary wae 

O' ane bedoom'd to see 
Ilk bosom cauld amang the clay, 
That brichten'd up life's cloudy day, 

As Luna gilds the sea. 

" Sae cauldly cauld tiie blast that blaws. 

On ane without a hame ; 
Nae frien'ly han' to ward aw a' 
The nameless ills that thickly fa', 

To crush the droopin' stem." 

King Morpheus kiss'd her bonny brow, 

An' kindly clos'd her e'e. 
An' Oh ! her dreams were sweet I ween, 
For she sleepit soun' till the weary mccn 

Had sunk ower Ochiltree. 

Syne up she sprang, an' pu'd a rose 
Frae afF its throny tree, 



134 MISCELLANEOUS FIECES. 

Wi' the leaves o' whilk I wat she soon 
Did form hersel' a grand balloon, 
To bear her ower the sea. 

Auld Nature kindly formed the car — 

A clover leaf sae green ; 
A spider's web did cords supply, 
An' a slichted lover's latest sigh 

Was a' the gas I ween. 

" Fareweel ye bonny banks o' Ayr — 

A long fareweel to thee !" 
Syne sobbin' sair she sail'd awa', 
To seek a Ian' she never saw — 
A hame ayont the sea. 

O ! there were mourners in her train, 

A heavy-heartit thrang ; 
An' never yet sic dolefu' strains 
Were heard on Caledonia's plains, 

As their sad partin' sang. 

The partin' pang, the partin' hour. 

That weary word, adieu, — 
The bleezin' battle's deadly stour. 
Is nae sae sair's the partin' hour, 
Nor half sae sair, I trow. 

The little goddess swiftly scuds 
Alang the balmy sky ; 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 135 

The banks o' Ayr are far behind : 
She rides upon the faithless wind — 
But Benachie draws nigh. 

An' there was mist on Benachie, 

An' mony a mournfu' sigh ; 
An' the waefu' wanderer lichted down, 
To see what made the dolefu' soun' 

That murmur'd through the sky. 

An' Benachie was weepin' sair, 

Within his misty bower ; 
Ye micht hae heard ilk waefu' scream 
Owcr Garioch wide, while Ury's stream 

Wi's reekin' tears ran ower. 

Laugh on I — but Caledonia's hills 

Hae aften wept afore. 
To see Oppression's iron han' 
Drive myriads frae their native Ian', 

To seek an unkent shore. 

O Scotia I thy rocky hills 

Hae feelings sail an' pure ; 
But Benachie excels them a' ; 
He vvadna lat thy muse awa, 

The warld wide to scour. 

'Twas just whare Ury's reekin' flood 
Ran wildly on to Don, 
11* 



126 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

A modest, unkent, nameless bard 
Sat musin' on the gow'nie sward, 
An' heard the mountain's moan. 

Wi' anxious steps, an' anxious looks, 

Aslant the flowery lea, 
Straight to the mourner's foot he hied, 
An' there he stood an' sadly cried, 

" What ails thee Benachie ?" 

Anither sob, — anither moan, 

Made ilka heart-string sair : 
He speel'd the mourner's sobbin' side, 
Wi' tremblin' steps, and soon espied 
The waefu' wanderer there. 

I trow she glowr'd, an' glowr'd again. 

Syne swore by Benachie : — 
" Gin ye'll be true, an' think nae shame 
To lat that bosom be my hame, 
I'll never cross the sea." 

He press'd her to his lowin' heart. 

The tear fell frae his e'e ; 
" That beatin' bosom's a' thy ain, — 
We'll dwall on yonder flowery plain, — 

Ye'se never cross the sea." 

She kiss'd him ower an' ower again ; 
(Gude pity chiels like me I) 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 127 



The witchfu' elf, she's Willie's bride, 
An' sweetly sings on Ury-side, 
Near blythesome Benachie. 



THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL. 

Britannia ! Oh, Britannia I 

My own beloved land I 
Adieu, adieu, Britannia I 

I seek a foreign strand. 
Where now the dreams I fondly dream'd, 

When life's gay morning dawn'd ? 
Alas ! they but a moment gleam'd, 

Like friendship's fickle hand. 

Britannia ! Oh, Britannia I 

My Mary sleeps in thee : 
She sleeps in brave Britannia, 

But dreams no more of me ; 
For want besieg'd our little store, 

Nor bread nor work had we : 
My Mary sunk — she'll need no more — 

She'll never cross the sea. 

Britannia I Oh, Britannia I 

I'm on the faithless wave ; 
My poor misrul'd Britannia 

Can never be my grave. 



128 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

How long shall folly and excess 
My native land enslave ? 

How long shall cruel laws disgrace 
The rulers of the brave ? 

Britannia ! Oh, Britannia ! 

What pangs my bosom tear ; 
My own belov'd Britannia, 

The parting hour is here ; 
Thy hills are sinking from my view ; 

Alas ! they disappear. 
A long — a passionate adieu 

To all that's deeply dear ! 

Britannia ! Oh, Britannia ! 

Thy hills, thy valleys fair — 
No more, my own Britannia, 

My feet shall wander there ; 
Yet day and night around the brink 

Of Mary's lonely lair, 
Till life's sad sun in sorrow sink, 

My soul shall linger there. 

Britannia ! Oh, Britannia ! 

The everlasting sea, 
That laves thy shores, Britannia, 

Shall o'er thy mountains flee ; 
Thy lowly daisy proudly rise 

Above thy tallest tree, 
Before the spot where Mary lies 

Shall be forgot by me. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 199 



A WISH. 

O FOR for a sweet, secluded spot 

On some lone, lovely isle, 
Where all my cares might be forgot. 

And peace for ever smile. 

One kindred heart, I'd ask no more, 

My life, my love to share ; 
And that one heart within its core 

To nourish love and prayer. 

There would we bloom, like sweet twin-flowers. 

Beneath pure pleasure's ray ; 
And there at last, 'mid autumn showers. 

Like flow'rets fade away : 

Our withered leaves, low in tiic tomb. 

Together mingling lie ; 
The fragrance of our summer bloom 

Be wafted to the sky. 



LOVE. 

There is an hour of boundless bliss. 
When young and ardent lovers meet 

When feasting on the first pure kiss, 
'Tis life's delicious sweetest sweet. 



130 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

When clasp'd in Beauty's fondest fold, 
Ere aught of guile our bosoms stain, 

That moment, fraught with pleasure's gold, 
Can gild a life of future pain. 

There is an hour — an anguish'd hour, 
When young and tender lovers part, 

And I have felt its piercing power 
Sink to the centre of my heart. 

Yes, I have dropt a trembling hand. 

And felt my bursting heart-strings glow, 

When all the wealth of sea and land 

Could not have bought my soul from wo. 

Love is a wild, bewildering dream, 
Presenting scenes of joy and wo ; 

Now borne on angel-wings we seem. 
Now sinking to the shades below. 

Yet love shall reign — for ever reign. 
Above the blue and blissful sky : 

Its pleasures pure, without its pain, 
Can never, never, never die. 



SONNETS. 



TO UGIE WATER. 

Roll on— roll on, thou mem'ry-stirring stream I 

Thy daisied banks are deeply dear to mc : 
I gaze upon them, and again I seem 

A schoolboy, bathing gloriously in thee I 
Swifl as the wind, again my unshod feet 

Pursue by thee the gaudy butterfly ; 
Or on thy banks, v/ith wild flowers scented sweet, 

At sunny noon, imparadis'd I lie. 
But, turning round, the dear delusion's o'er — 

My offspring, frolicsome, around me play; 
In childhood's glee, they throng thy pebbled shore, 

Such as I was, when in my early May. 
Roll on, my Ugie ! though I'm young no more. 

Yet will I love thee till my dying day. 



132 



TO A BEAUTIFUL MOTHERLESS INFANT. 

Come to my arms again, thou beauteous child I 

And let me kiss thy sweet lips, o'er and o'er : 
That seraph face, angelically mild. 

Reminds me of thy mother — now no more. 
When round her bier in childish sport thou flew — 

An angel hov'ring round. the silent dead — 
I mark'd thine eyes, so " beautifully blue ;" 

No grief-drops there the streams of sorrow fed : 
Athwart thy dimpled cheek the witching smile 

Flay'd, like a moonbeam on the infant wave ; 
Unconscious of thy loss, thou laugh'd the while 

We laid thy mother in the gloomy grave. 
So, may thy lifetime griefless pass away, 
And may thou never mourn her dying day. 



TO MARY, 



ON HER WEDDlNG-OAT. 



Mary, I've seen thee, in life's humble vale, 
Adorn the beauties of the virgin Spring ; 

I've seen the lily blush — the rose turn pale — 
The moon eclips'd — the skylark cease to aing !- 



133 



Xay, I have seen the sun with en^f^ weep, 

And own thine eyes outshone his brightest beam — 
And all the beauty of the moon-kissed deep 

Evanish in thy presence, like a dream : 
All these I've seen, and, ravish'd with the sight, 

I've sigh'd my senses and my soul away ; 
Yet these, all these, were but the shades of night 

Compar'd with joyous June's meridian ray : 
Yes, all was dark my fancy then deemed light 

Now I have seen thee on thy wedding-day I 



VS RITTEN AFTER VISITING MR. T. D. CRUDEN, 

lOf/t February, 1843. 

Why am I sad ? and why does sorrow's tear 

Steal on my cheek, and mar my wonted joy ? 
O why do all things vanity appear, 

And dreams of death my brooding thoughts employ ? 
To-night I saw a man — nay, more — a bard, 

Whose winter-withcr'd check, dcflower'd and wan, 
Told of the tyrant Time's cold disregard 

For all that's mortal — all that's seen of man. 
12 



134 



Four years agone, the rose upon his cheek 
Was fresh as Flora's dew-besprinkled bloom, 

Bat now, like lily, all resign'd and meek, 

Bending its head beneath the winter's gloom. 

It fades and dies. May I a lesson learn. 

And see my winter coming, cold and stern. 



ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 

'TwAS Summer, and the sultry sun shone bright, 

And flow'rets bloom'd upon the banks of Ayr, 
And music through the groves, from morn till night, 

Proclaim'd the little songsters free from care ; 
Yet, there was sorrow— deepest sorrow there, — 

The Scottish Muse, in widow weeds array'd. 
Wept tears of blood, and frantic tore her hair. 

And sobb'd aloud, " Alas ! he's lowly laid I" 
Like some fond mother o'er her infant dear, — 

Nipt, like a flower, in sinless sunny days — 
So Caledonia hung upon his bier. 

And kiss'd the lips that oil had sung her praise : 
" Sleep on, my son !" she said, and dropt a tear — 

" Sleep on — sleep on, thou'rt deathless in thy lays I" 



135 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, WHILE STANDING BESIDE FLAX- 
MAN's STATUE OF BURNS, WITHIN HIS MONUMENT ON THE 
CALTON HILL, EDINBURGH, SATURDAY, APRIL 26tH, 1845. 

'Tis hallowed ground, all-sacred to the bard, 

Whose last deep sigh transpierced a nation's heart; 
And here he stands to reap his just reward, 

While wond'ring pilgrims worship Flaxman's art. 
Can I that living marble now survey. 

Nor feel my bosom swell with throes of love ? 
O shall my soul's emotions die away 

Without one sigh their dreamy depths to prove I 
To wake, sweet bard, the echoes of thy home. 

Let one faint note from trembling lyre of mine 
Be heard within thy consecrated dome, 

And one pure tear fall at thy sacred shrine ; 
For I thy strains with love and pride will prize, 
Till kindred spirits meet beyond the starry skies. 



TO MAY, 1843. 

Welcome, sweet May ! O, how my bosom swells I 
To look on thy dear face — to kiss thy cheek, 

And see thy daisy-fringed mantle on the dales. 
After so long a night of winter bleak. 



136 SONNETS. 

Welcome, sweet May ! in all thy wonted charms, 

Again thou comest, crown'd with garlands gay, 
Nursing the tender Spring in thy fond arms, 

And strewing flowers around thee in the way : 
The rosy-cheeked maiden hails thy smile, 

And sickness courts thee with a lover's joy ; 
Old age, bow'd down with many a care and toil, 

Comes forth to welcome thee — blest to employ 
His last, fast-fading strength to reach the stile. 

And there, with grateful heart, thy balmy sweets enjoy. 



FOR NEW-YEAR'S DAY. 

Another year of time has pass'd away, 

And long eternity is drawing near : 
Another year — perhaps another day. 

And man and all his works may disappear ! 
Time's but a courser, and his fleet career 

May end before he reach another round ; 
Or, should he chance to run another year. 

He lays a thousand dead at every bound ! 
Why longer trust to future years in store ? 

Why hang our hopes upon a spider's thread ? 
Begin the work of life, and sleep no more, 

A flower late planted ne'er may raise its head ; 
Or, chok'd by weeds neglected in the soil. 
May never, never bloom, nor shed a cheerful smile. 



137 



PITY'S TEAR. 

I've seen a tear shed for the silent dead — 

A mother weeping o'er her infant's bier : 
I've seen a tear from Sorrow's fountain-head, 

And one forc'd to the light by pangs severe : 
I've seen a tear of joy drop from the eye, 

And one distilled from the soul of love : 
I've seen repentance weep, and heard the cry. 

The bitter cry, of hunger, heard above. 
All these may meet us wheresoe'er we go, — 

For man is doom'd to weep while wandering here. 
Yet there's a tear (how few have seen it flow I) 

Surpasses all the gems the Indies bear : — 
A mortal weeping o'er another's wo, 

I saw it once, and shed a nameless tear, 



TO CECILIA, 

INFANT DAUGHTER OF MR. R K . 

Sweet little cherub, smiling like the dawn 
When April bathes in dew the daisied dales, 

Blithe as the lambkin frisking on the lawn. 
When maiden May perfumes the sunny vales 
12* 



138 



May never sigh, impelled by sorrow's sway, 

Convulsive tear that happy heart of tliine. 
Nor snare of vice, alluring, lead astray 

Thy little feet, sweet babe, from virtue's shrine ; 
May never clouds obscure the rising sun 

That shines so lovely on thy opening bloom, — 
Bright be his beams, until thy race be run, 

To light the path that leads thee to thy home, 
Where yet a brighter, purer morn thou'lt see, 
Than gilds thy sunny cheek, all lovely though it be. 



TO A FRIEND, 

ABOUT TO EMIGRATE TO AUSTRALIA. 

Farewell, dear youth I a sorrowful farewell I 

To spend a social hour, we'll meet no more ; 
The wide sea's billows soon shall mournful swell 

To bear thee far from me, and Scotland's shore. 
But, let the waves — nay, more — the great globe, roll. 

If possible, between my friend and me, 
On wings of lasting love, my willing soul 

Shall anxiously be wafted after thee ; 
And when I wander lone on Ugie-side, 

Where we, like fondest lovers, oft have met, 



139 



I'll kneel me down beside the silver tide, 

And, in imagination, greet thee yet ; 
And when, far hence, thou ofFer'st up a prayer, 
O mind on Ugie-side, and him who loves thee there. 



OX THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 

Awake, my muse, and warble forth my grief, 

Sadly and slow, in solemn-sounding lines ; 
Ah ! what can soothe, or bring my heart relief. 

Since lifeless on his bier my friend reclines I 
Be mute, ye songsters sweet I and you, ye flowers ! 

Spread not your dewy bosoms to the east ; 
'Tis mockery to tlie heart, when sorrow lowers. 

To sing gay songs, or spread the choicest feast; 
But wake, thou moaning, melancholy wind. 

And join my wailing numbers o'er his bed ; 
No more, alas ! in this low vale, I'll find 

A friend like him who moulders with the dead I 
Oh ! may we meet again, to part no more, 
When the last billow bursts on ocean's burning sliore I 



140 



SUGGESTED ON READING A SONNET ADDRESSED TO A POETICAL 
FRIEND, BY S. VV. PARTRIDGE. 

" Poetical and poor !" exclaims the bard, 

" A bitter lot is thine !" — and then he sings 
Of Care, and Want, and Famine, pressing hard, 

And piercing sore his friend, with many stings. 
" Poetical and poor I" that lot is mine ; 

'Tis hard indeed, but harder might have been 
If poor alone, without the soothing Nine 

To make the waste a fruitful, flowery scene. 
Come to my heart, ye muses ! come away. 

And I will laugh at Want and Famine pale ; 
Thy smiles can soothe my cares and keep me gay, 

While Hope and peace of mind with Want may dwell. 
I seek no bays — can laugh at Grandeur's sneer, — 
Man's mind should be his wealth, while doom'd to wander 
here. 



WRITTEN ON LEAVING DUNDEE, ON BOARD THE " LOCHR 
STEAMER, 1st OCTOBER, 1844. 

Home ! there is 'magic in that sound : O home ! 

Once more my bounding heart is fix'd on thee 
By " queenly Tay" no longer will I roam, 

But seek again that bosom dear to me. 



141 



The autumn leaves fall yellow from the tree, 

And winter's wildest winds will soon be here ; — 
Farewell, ye noble Tay ! adieu Dundee I 

I leave you both, and happy homeward steer. 
Farewell, ye charming scenes around Kinnoul ! 

Adieu to Perth and all that charm'd rae there ; 
Soon will the Borean blasts around you howl, 

And all your present beauties disappear : 
But changeless is the heart of her I love, 
And homeward to her arms I o'er the waters move. 



TO WINTER. 



Hail, chieftain of the north I thou com'st again, 

Stern monarch of the year, I bid thee hail ! 
Thou com'st like warrior fierce, rushing amain 

To strew thy path with desolation pale. 
Yet thou art welcome to the thoughtful soul, — 

Stern as thou art, I give my love to thee ; 
Thou art my muse when boist'rous billows roll — 

When Boreas rules the restless, roaring sea. 
Thy rage once spent, how dear reviving Spring I 

Dearer than if she linger'd all the year; 
She comes like a lost friend, to whom we cling 

With warmer love than had he still been near ; — 
The pains of life its pleasures all perfume. 
Then welcome, Winter rude, Spring on thy grave will 
bloom. 



142 SONNETS. 



TO HOPE, 



Celestial Hope ! star of my bosom's sky I 

Unclouded still through every changing scene, 
Sweet'ner of life ! again to thee I fly, 

As flies the lovely lark to skies serene. 
Thou sw^eetest gifl; bestow'd on man below, 

Whate'er my lot in this vain world may be. 
May ne'er the light of heaven around me glow 

And see my sinking soul depriv'd of thee. 
Oft has thy light illum'd my gloomy way, 

When darkest shades of sorrow o'er me hung, 
And ofl I've turn'd to thee, by night or day. 

When base allurements headlong led me wrong ; 
And once again to thee my spirit bends, — 
O may it rest on thee when life's vain vision ends. 



EPISTLES, 



TO MR. A. H. ABERCHIRDER. 

AuLD-farren, canty, rhymin' fricn', 
I gat yer letter late yestreen ; 
An' aye sin' syne I've ravin' been 

Wi' perfect pride : 
Sic pranks till noo were never seen 

On Ugie-side. 

My Tibbie thocht me fairly frantic — 
O had you seen ilk jump gig-antic I 
The waves upon the wide Atlantic 

Were ne'er sae wild — 
Mad Merry Andrew's daflest antic, 

In contrast mild. 

I'm but a hair-brain'd clown at best, 
An' little braks my wonted rest ; 
But yon poetic feast ye drest. 

Sic power it had 
To feather my poetic nest, 

I clean gaed mad. 



144 



The tempest noo begun to settle, 
I fain wad try Pegasus' mettle ; 
Yet on his back I scarce daur ettle 

To seat myseP, 
Some wanton sp'rit has plac'd a nettle 

Below his tail. 

Drunk Tam O'Shanter on his marc, 
Wi' Robin's witches in his rear, 
Was safer far — I muckle fear 

I'll jump in vain, 
Apollo ! ho ! assistance here ! 

The beast's my ain. 

Yes, on his back alofl I'm seatit. 
An' noo my hindmost groat I'll bet it, 
" A sonsie sonnet" ye shall get it 

Wi' right good will ; 
My vera best — gin I can hit it — 

Be't guid or ill. 

Tho' but a rustic, raw beginner, 

A careless, fearless, scribblin' sinner, 

My muse, there may be something in her- 

Ye seem to think it — 
Sae here she is, gin I can win her, 

Ycr health I'll drink it. 

Sincerity my text shall be, 

Frae this I'll preach, and that you'll src ; 



EPISTLES. 

But gin we hap to disagree, 

I'll doff my bonnet, 

An' beg your pardon on my knee. 
Syne burn my somiet. 

Hail then, " my rhyme-composin' brither ! 
We've been ower lang unkent to ither ;" 
By Nature's law, fowls o' a feather. 

We plainly see, 
Are ever fain to flock thegither, 

An' sae will we. 

As wavin' fields o' gowdcn grain. 
To yon fat farmer, fidgin' fain. 
As gloamin' to the love-sick swain, 

Sae dear to me 
Thy artless, unaffected strain 

Shall ever be. 

Thy " blythesome, buzzin', cantie bee," 
May cope wi' Robin's minstrelsy ; 
Nana but a poet's heavenly e'e, 

Wi' raptur'd stare 
In Nature's bonnie face, could see 

What's painted there. 

The heedless fortune-huntin' race, 
That stride alang wi' hasty pace, 
Nor steal ae blink at Nature's face, — 
They little ken 
13 



145 



146 



What sterling pleasures they displace, 
For dear-bought pain. 

They sleep, an' eat, an' sleep again, 
Or, ablins waukrifc, lie and grane, 
Conjurin' up imaginM pain 

Wi' countless stings. 
While ower the moon-illumin'd plain 

The poet sings. 

Or at the bricht meridian hour, 
Whan jolly June, wi' magic power. 
Bedecks the vale wi' mony a flower, — 

Frae hut or ha', 
To some lone, leafy, nameless bower, 

He hies awa'. 

Or deep in some ghaist-hauntit glen, 
Whan museless mortals dinna ken. 
He lives his childhood ower again — 

His " auld lang-syne," 
Whare first he pu'd upon the plain, 

" The gowans fine." 

Or ablins doun some burnie side. 
That wimplin' wanders to the tide. 
By broomy braes or meadows wide, 

Begem'd wi' flowers, 
Wi' musefii' pace you'll see him glide 

At gloamin' hours. 



147 



In dreamy thochts, aboon a' care, 
He'll pause, an' pore, an' ponder there, 
Till dazzled — wi' the glorious glare, 

The warld ne'er saw — 
Breathless on Nature's bosom bare. 

He swoons awa. 

Or doun the dale to memory dear, 
Whare first he saw Love's lealest tear — 
A priceless gem, doun drappin' clear 

Frae Jeanie's e'e — 
Ower holy ground you'll see him veer. 

To yon thorn tree. 

'Twas there — ye dreamy thochts be still I — 
'Twas there, beside the flower-fring'd rill 
That skirts the shelt'rin' sunny hill, 

Ae gloamin' gray. 
She whisper'd safl her ain sweet will : — 

" I'm yours for aye." 

An' as he e'es the spot ance mair, 
Or fraught wi' joy, or grief, or care, 
His swelling heart — but wha may dare, 

Save he alane, 
To lay tliose bosom secrets bare ? — 

I'll change the scene. 

Sae here I quit my vain digression. 
An' thank you for " The Assignation,"* 

* A song which Mr. H. sent to the Author. 



148 



ril gie't my warmest commendation 
To a' my frien's, 

An' spread it ower the Buchan nation 
By tens and teens. 

O H r, leeze me on thy lyre ! 

It's pregnant wi' poetic fire : 
Lang may you sing an' never tire 

Until you die, — 
To ape thy strain my hale desire 

Sail ever be. 

Sweet be thy dreams on Dev'ronside, 
An' leal and loesome be thy bride : 
Tho' I perchance nae mair may stride 

Across to see you, 
My love, while flows my bosom's tide. 

Sail aye be wi' you. 

Aye when that lucky day comes roun' 
That fortune led me to your toun. 
Depend upon't I'll set me down 

'Mang Bacchus' bowers, 
An' swig a pint o' stoutest brown 

To you an' yours. 

Our creeds-political, you see, 
May differ here and there a wee : 
You seem to think auld Scotia free, — 
I'll no dispute it ; 



149 



But by my text, sincerity, 

I'm bound to doubt it. 

I like your sonsie lines for a' that ; 

A heart sincere they plainly shaw that ; 

An' never will I fling awa tiiat, 

Daft thoug-h I be ; 
Sae very few I find can fa' that — 

At least to me. 

My muse may ablins tak' a flight 
Ower Caledon some winter nicht. 
To see gin you or I be richt — 

Meantime excuse her — 
She wadna thole a Poet's slight, 

Whae'er abuse her. 

Fareweel ! my breath I noo maun tak' it, 
For whaislin' in a sweatie jacket, 
My nag, like ony city sackit, 

Hangs head an' tail ; 
Yet ae request, I fain wad mak' it 

Afore he fail. 

Aye whan you gang to Mount Parnassus, 

To woo the nine immortal lasses. 

Pray lat me ken what 'mang you passes ; 

I'll be right fain : 
An' ilka time I mount Pegasus, 

I'se lat you ken. 
13* 



150 EPISTLES. 

I'll noo dismount and say nae mair : 
Hae patience \vi' my rhymin' ware, 
You'll find it tliin an' fell threadbare, 

But, guid or ill, 
Its yours, an' I'm wi' heart sincere, 
Yours, 

Peter Still. 
Millbank, Ati^. 1842. 



TO A. R., ESQ.; PETERHEAD. 

i' My lov'd, my honOur'd, much-respeqted friend, 

« iNo mercenary bard his homage pays; 

With honest pride I sc<jrn each selfish end, 

' My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise." 

Burns.' 

• * ■ ( 
• « ■ .- 

Dear Sir, my muse has been your debtor * 
For sax lang months an' something better, ,^^ ^\ 
An' mony a time I've tried to set her * »., , 

Awa' to pay you, ' • • .. 

But out o' this I cou'dna get her, 

E'en thanks to say you. 

Wi' coaxin' words I tried to win her, 
Wi' lover's wiles I prest it on her. 
An' braidly hintit at the honour, 

An' eke the fame. 
That soon might glorious burst upon her, 

A quenchless flame. 



151 



But a' my wiles were wiles in vain, 
An' a' my words were worthless then ; 
She toss'd her head wi' proud disdain — 

A haughty she — 
Till I was e'en at last right fain 

To drap my plea. 

Sac days an' weeks sped on sae fast, 
That months are number'd with the past, 
Since on my pow ye kindly placed 

A helmet strong, 
Gart wad-be critics shrink '^gliast, 
. An' tied ilJfT.tqngue. 

Exulting in its glorious bla^e, 
I giant-like strode ower the«l«ys. 
An' bravely challeng'd a' my'faes' 

To combat keen, * ^^ 

But never yet hae sung your praise, ' 

My worthy frien'. 

Whijfe popd'rin' ower my sins yestreen, 
This black ingratitude was seen. 
An' stared me hard wi' horrid e'en, 

;* Till up I sprang, 

An" sware an aith — an awfu' ane — 
My muse I'd hang. 

No ! up I sprang an' stoutly swore 
An aith unsworn in time before ; 



152 



Tho' I should dine on frogs galore, 

A Frenchman's platefu', 

Anither day should ne'er pass owcr 
My head, ungratefu'. 

So here astride upon Pegasus, 
I canter on towards Parnassus 
Implorin' warm the tunefu' lasses 

To string my lyre. 
An' pour upon my head in masses 

Poetic fire. 

Poetic fire ! behold the reek o't : 

My hardship glorious by the cheek o't, 

Parnassus noo I needna speak o't, 

It's a' my ain ; 
I thank you frae the flowery peak o't. 

In heartfelt strain. 

Yes ! frae my bosom's benmost core, 
Warm-gushin' through my rhymin' lore, 
A tiiousand thanks, a thousand more 

I humbly render ; 
Nae gowd hae I laid up in store, 

A fee to tender. 

Yet poor and plaekless tho' I be. 
This self same warld has charms for me. 
Dame Nature's sweets attract my e'e, 
Whan lone I wander. 



153 



At morn or eve, by moor or lea, 
A while to ponder. 

What heart sae cauld but feels a glow. 
Whan Spring comes smilin' o'er the knowe, 
An' sweetly blushin' down the howe, 

The fiow'rets fair, 
A' gemm'd wi' morn or e'enin' dew, 

Embalm the air. 

The meanest serf that treads on clay, 
Gall'd by Oppression's iron sway, 
Has riches then on ilka brae, 

An' bank, an' bower — 
An' yielding to the magic sway. 

Forgets he's poor. 

While musin' by the Ugie's shore. 
On summer's eve when toil is o'er. 
The wild flowers bloomin' mony a score, 

Alang the plain, 
Nae thoughts o' poverty came o'er 
My bosom then. 

Or whan the rustlin' yellow grain 
Adorns the farmer's fertile plain. 
An' Luna blushin' o'er the main 

Enchantinglie, 
My plackless purse ne'er gies me pain, 

Tho' toom it be. 



154 



Does Caledonia own the man, 

A serf, a slave, in a' the Ian', 

Whase heart-blood ne'er enraptur'd ran 

Through ilka vein. 
Whan Luna wav'd her magic wan' 

O'er gowden grain ? 

Say, is there ane on Scotia's plain 
Wha never worship'd Luna tiaen ? 
The dread commandment — a' the ten — 
Could ne'er restrain me ; 
Nor gowd upon me shower'd like rain — 
Unless 't had slain me. 

The glowing soul, sublimely swelling, 
Forgets a while its lowly dwelling. 
An' bursts awa' through ether sailing 

Whare angels roam ; 
Till Nature's law again prevailing, 

Recalls it home. 

" The soft idea springs sublime, 

The swelling soul o'erflows wi' rhyme ; 

Each quick'ning pulse beats triple time 

To boundless joy ; 
One passing thought 'twere then a crime 

On gowd to employ." 

The bleakest months in a' the year — 
Romantic winter's mad career — 



EPISTLES. 155 



The snawy hills, tho' cauld an' drear, 
Hae charms for me ; 

I see Omnipotence appear 

On land an' sea. 

What eye but sees in Nature's plan 

The universe-enclasping han', 

That sways ten thousand worlds as one, 

An"" bids them roll ; 
Auld Terra here, a grain o' san', 

Amang the whole. 

The briny mountains swelling; high — 
The stormy, cloud-o'erburden'd sky — 
The leafless trees that prostrate lie 

Amang the snaw ; 
Or frantic Ugie thun<iering by — 

I like them a'. 

Yet, frae my heart, I aft bemoan 
The hapless Tar, on ocean lone, 
Whare billows roll convulsive on 

Before the gale, 
Far frae his hame an' Caledon 

Whare kindred dwell. 

Again, when Boreas bangs his hail 
On Ugie's icy coat o' mail, 
Wi' bleedin' heart I aft bewail 

The wee bit birdie, 



156 



On some bare branch wi' droopin' tail, 
An' shiv'rin' heartie. 

Sac cauld an' death-like there it cowers, 
While doun an' doun the hailstane pours 
Nae leafy lythe, nae spreadin' flowers, 

Nae bield ava ; 
At last the hungry hawk doun scours. 

An' nips 't awa. 

Poor thing I its death let me bemoan ,■ 

It wadna quit cauld Caledon, 

Whan winter's angry blasts cam' on — 

True to the last — 
Its native tree it cowr'd upon, 

Despite the blast. 

So clings the swain to Scotia's shore, — 
Tho' poortith's tempests roun' him roar. 
In hopes at last they'll a' blaw ower, 

Tho' cauld an' snell, — 
Till some huge hawk first seize his store, 

An' syne himsel'. 

Yet dark December broodin' ower 
The snawy plain, the surgy shore. 
Brings joys to me a countless store, 

When gloamin' gray. 
Somewhere about the hour o' four. 

Seals up the day. 



157 



Wi' joy unfeign'd, ye needna doubt, 
Frae some wet ditch I clam'cr out, 
An' buckle on my auld surtout 

Wi' freedom's pride ; 
Sjme through the snaw I tak' the route. 

To Ugie-side. 

An' there my wee bit cantie ha'. 
Peeps out frae 'mid a wreath o' snaw, 
Whilk bauds the frosty win' awa ; 

For there it lies, 
Till safter gales in pity blaw, 

Frae warmer skies. 

My half-seen hame ance mair in view, 

My happy heart loups licht, I trow, 

To see the " wee-things stacher through" 

The lairy snaw ; 
Ilk smilin' face says, " Here's him noo," 

An', " Come awa." 

The youngest ane — a wee bit lammie — 
Rins ben the house to tell its mammie ; 
An' dancin', says that first it saw me — 

Syne to the door 
Again it rins, " Tit-ta" to ca' me, 
Wi' a' its power. 

Wee innocent ! its blythcsome smile, 
Nor mask'd wi' art, nor stain'd wi' guile, 
14 



158 



Repays my ilka care an' toil, 

To keep it cozie ; 

I'm truly blest whan prest a while 
To its leal bosie. 

Afore I sing my hindmost sang, 
An' lay my weary bancs amang 
The lang-forgotten, mould'rin' thrang. 

In yon kirkyard ; 
I hope to see't, maist sax feet lang. 

My toils reward. 

But, as I said, whan gloamin' gray 

Seals up the murky winter day, 

I " hameward plod my weary way," 

Through wreaths o' snaw : 
Syne to my lyre without delay, 

I gleesome fa'. 

My Tibbie, blythesome, at my hip. 

Gars spinnin'-jenny nimbly trip, 

Or, some auld seam that's tint the grip, 

She seams anew ; 
While on Parnassus' tap I sip 

Poetic dew. 

Or ower some wcel-tauld, witch fu' tale, 
'Bout some angelic Arabelle ; 
An hour or tvva we baith regale, 

(Minds maun be fed) — 



159 



Syne ask a blessin' on our kail, 
An' gang to bed. 

The icee-things, beddit lang afore. 
In ithers oxters soun'ly snore ; 
There's nocht ado but bar the door 

An' rest the fire — 
Till mornin'' then, lat Boreas roar, 

Until he tire. 

While blest wi^ health, an' meal, an' kail, 
My humble lot I'll ne'er bewail ; 
To ilka breeze I'll spread my sail 

An' steer awa. 
Nor coward-like flee frae ilka gale 

That haps to blaw. 

Whan thochts despondent tempt an' teeze, 
A frien* like you gies life a heeze ; 
For Fame is dear, where'er she flees, 

To Priest or Poet ; 
Her han' jets mony a hearty squeeze. 

Gin folks wad show it 

For me, I hug'd her ower an' ower, 
An' flang my bonnet to the door. 
An' bless'd the Herald* half a score 

O' times, an' mair ; 
But little kent frae Buchan's shore 

Ye sent her there. 



* " The Aberdeen Herald" newspaper. 



160 



I laup an' canter'd like a filly ; 

I thocht mysel' the bard o' Killie, 

(But that rash thocht was something silly,) 

An' honest Adam,* — 
An aefauld, independent billy, 

I danc'd an' ca'd him. 

An', cortes, there I wasna wrang ; 
His verra name adorns my sang ; 
I've alien kent him bauldly bang — 

Nae matter wha : 
May a' his enemies ride the stang, 

Frae earth awa 1 

For you, my frien', my wish is warm, 
Lang may ye wield a wichtfu' arm. 
An' find a bield firae ilka storm — 

For storms will rage — 
Till honours roun' about you swarm 

In ripe old age ! 

Ohone ! Farewell I — I've tint my lyre. 

My feckless nag begins to tire ; 

Lang, lang, may Fortune fan your fire. 

On life's high hill ; 
Meantime I trudge alang the mire, 

Your servant, 

STILL. 

Millbanh, Oct. 1842. 



* Mr. Adam, Editor of the Herald. 



TO MR. WILLIAM CRUICKSHANK, 

BOGBRAE, CRUDEN. 

Dear Willie, while the wintry blast 
Comes howlin' frac the wild nor'wast, 

The snawy plain alang, 
I seat mysel' at Tibbie's hip, 
My rhymin' quill ance mair to dip, 

An' sing anither sang ; 
But where my nag may canter noo, 

I winna daur divine. 
But here I scratch my prosy pow, 

In labour for a line — 

All hail ! then, his tail then, 
I'll turn it to the breeze ; 

An' veer noo, an' steer noo, 
For Cruden's Bogiebraes. 

Your grand epistle, winsome Willie, 
Revives again the bard o' Killie, 

An' gars my hardship stare : 
That lucky day it cam' to han', 
In wonder up the brae I ran. 

An' glowr'd an' gapit there. 
I really thought immortal Rab 

Was up, an' at his chanter, 
14* 



162 XPISTLES. 

Sae weel ye ape his gleesome gab, 
Whan on yer nag ye canter. 
Ye've dung me, ye've flung me — 

. Yer sang's a sang I trow, 
Parnassus' nine lasses 
Ye ivcn the way to woo. 

what a pang gaed through my heart ! 
Something like Envy's deadly dart — 

Wi' muckle shame I say't : 

1 sabb'd, " Ye Buchan Muse, adieu ! 
Ye've prov'd a jilt to me, I trow, 

Tho' a' my heart ye hae't." 
I took my lyre, an' ower't I hung. 

Like willow ower a stream. 
An' to the winds its notes I flung — 
A sad an' sombre theme : 
Auld Ugic, sae vogie, 

For mony a day afore, 

Was wecpin' an' creepin', 

The muses to implore. 

Apollo saw, and whisper'd low, 
" Ugie, thy bard shall never know 

A rival on thy banks ; 
But friendship warm, and free from art, 
Shall bind for aye his willing heart 

To Brother Crookedshanks." 
Sae, Willie, here's my horny paw, 

An' here's my heart to boot ; 



EPISTLES. 163 

Whan next we meet we'll mak' it law 
Outower Glen-Ugie's stout.* 
My sang- noo, I'll bang noo, 

An' send it ower the hill — 
Sublime noo, I'll rhyme noo, 
An' that wi' richt guid will. 

Whan I look back on days o' yore — 
Whan ower " langsyne" I pensive pore, 

An' think on what I was — 
Whan happy wi' my herdin' rung, 
Aside the kye I sat an' sung, 

I kentna what micht pass ; 
Whan ower the IJgie's flowery sward, 

I chas'd the busy bee, 
I little thought I'd turn a bard. 

An' sing a sang to thee ; 

Yet canty, an' vaunty, 

I'm here amang the lave — 

Aspirin', untirin', 

The shafts o' death to brave. 

But even then my heart wad swell. 
While herdin' in the dewy dale — 

An Eden then to me — 
Whan merry May, or jolly June, 
Inspir'd that ever-matchless tune, 

Ca'd Nature's Minstrelsy. 

* Glen-Ugie distillery is famous for the strength of its 
/hiskey, which is here styled stout. 



164 



I mind my heart wad flutter fast, 

An' rise in glorious glee, 
To see her mazy mantle cast 
A treasure on the lea ; 
I danc'd on't, I prane'd on't. 

And thought mysel' a king ; 
While roun' me, aboon me, 
I heard the birdies sing. 

happy days, whan young an' gay, 

1 like a dreamin' angel lay 

On flow'ry Ugie-side ; 
Whan, like a fairy, fast I flew, 
To kiss the daisy dipt in dew. 

Or pu' the pink wi' pride ! 
An' even yet this heart o' mine 

Will battle care an' pain. 
Whan nestl'd sail in " Auld langsyne," 

I think them ower again : 

Nae niair tho' I'll share o' 
Their dear an' dreamy rest; 

But Fancy shall prance aye 
Amang them an' be blest. 

Meantime I bid them a' adieu, 
An' turn my sang again to you. 

At frien'ship's biddin' bent : 
Our sunny days are a' awa', 
An' noo, half-smor'd amang the snaw. 

We ply our daily stent. 



EPISTLES. 165 



We're baith upon life's stormy hill ; 

But keep your heart aboon ; 

We've roses sweetly blawin' still 

An' daises bloomin' roun' — 

We'll sing aye, an' fling aye 

Our little cares awa' ; 
An' Fame yet, may claim yet, 
The Buchan bardies twa. 

Auld Buchan ! blessin's on her pow I 
It sets my bosom on a low. 

To think that you an' I, 
Some sunny day, like brithers true, 
May bind a laurel roun' her brow. 

An' heeze her to the sky. 
Ower a' " the laurel'd land of song" 

We yet may crown her queen, — 
Spur up your nag amang the throng, 

An' blaw your chanter keen ; 

There's lore in't, a store in't, 
Sae, Willie, come awa'. 

We twa yet may craw yet, 
The crousest o' them a'. 

Immortal Rab, ye ken fu' weel, 
Was ncGthing but a ploughman chiel, 

A placklcss ploughman, lang ; 
Yet foremost in the beuk o' fame, 
Emblazon'd noo ye see his name, 

An' hear 't in mony a sang ; 



166 



An' you an' I may speel the tower, 

The tapless tower o' fame, 
Whan nobles sink amang the stour. 
Nor leave behind a name. 
There's room yet to bloom yet ; 

The garden o' the Nine 
Outmatches the patches 

That dykes an wa's confine. 

Lat Fancy leave her dreamy grove. 
An' roam at will like Noah's dove, 

Alang her mazy way ; 
She winna find its twa extremes, 
Tho' fleet she flee as solar beams, 

The langest simmer day. 
It's wider than the wavy sea, 

Frae Laplan' to the line ; 
It's boundless as eternity, 

The garden o' the Nine — 

Wi' bowers in't an' flowers in't, 
That mortals hinna seen ; 

We'll pu' them an' strew them 
Aroun' our Buchan queen. 

Come, bauldly enter I never fear, 
Tho' Learnin' wi' a college sneer 

Her classic lugs may cock. 
To see twa clowns like you an' I 
Amang the bowers o' poesy, 

We'll sing an' lat her mock ; 



167 



Though we be doom'd to labour sair, 

Wi' independent brow, 
We'll proudly shaw our passport there, 
An' primcst flowers may pu', 
Whan learnin' adornin' 
Some classic devotee, 
May pass them an' lose them, 
For a' her Latin e'e. 

But, Willie, I maun bridle draw, 
For chanticleer begins to craw. 

An' hails anither day ; 
I've canter'd on a winter nicht. 
Through win' an' snaw, an' noo maun licht, 

An' en' my lifeless lay. 
May brose an' bannocks braid be thine. 

An' happy be your ha' : 
I winna wish you wealth nor wine. 

But aye a plack to draw; 

For riches bewitches. 

An' leads the heart astray ; 

An' min' aye that wine aye 
Gars folk forget to pray. 

Lang may yer " Buchan lassie dear" 
The pretty flowers o' virtue wear, 

An' lang may slie be thine. 
An' lang may love her bosom warm, 
The wintry days o' age to charm. 

Whan summer days decline ; 



168 



An' lang, O Willie 1 niony a lang, 

May ye be spar'd to sing-, 
Till wi' the echos o' yer sang 
Yer native mountains ring. 
Yer paw noo I'll thraw noo, 

An' dicht my rhymin' quill : 
Yer servant, maist fervent, 
Yer brither. 



Peter Still. 



Millbank, January, 1843. 



TO MR. G. M., D S. 

(Written on learning that he was a bridegroom.) 

Dear G — , sax towmons noo hae fled, 

Sin' first I tried the rhymin' trade ; 

An' mony a senseless sang an' sonnet 

Hae sprung frae 'neath my auld blue bonnet ; 

Some grave, some gay, an' some pathetic : 

Some lyric lilts, an' some politic ; 

Some sent to poets far awa', 

An' some to chiels I never saw ; 

Some here, some there ; but, strange to tell, 

I ne'er sent aught yet to yoursel' : 

Nae that I didna think it due — 

For few hae been sae kind as you — 



169 



But aye some ither whirligig 
Was busy underneath my wig, 
An' kept my mind in sic a flutter, 
I couldna think about the matter. 

I'll ablins get but little thank ; 
Yet deil-ma-care — this ugly blank 
In my poetic panorama. 
At last intil't I mean to cram a 
Sang or sermon, just by chance, 
An' soun' your name in rhyme for once. 

Apropos, then, the time's propitious — 
Because my muse is half suspicious 
(An' seldom wrang ye yet hae kent her) 
Ye deem yersel' about to enter 
Some state o' bliss unkent to mortals, 
Atween auld Terra's icy portals ; 
Some dreamy intellectual Eden, 
Like that an angel mak's his bed in : 
But by my Pegasus so wild, 
I muckle fear you'll be beguil'd. 

Nae doubt a wife's a precious prize. 
The best we find aneath the skies. 
Gin Hymen guide us to a guid ane : 
(The L — d preserve you frae a bad ane.) 
Yet, as a brithcr, lat me tell you. 
That something's certain aye to ail you : 
15 



170 



Free as the moorcock 'mang the heather, 
Or swinging in tlic marriage tether, 
Depend upon 't that auld King Care 
Will try your temper less or mair, 
An' thief-like lurk about yer ha', 
Till frae the warld yer ta'en awa'. 
Some pleasures that ye lang hae wantit 
May noo be to yer wishes grantit ; 
Yet, on the ither han' be brought on 
Some cares that ye hae little thought on. 
It's hard to say, till ance we try, 
What snares afore us lurkin' lie. 

Thus, whan a stranger tak's the road on 
Some temptin' path he never trod on. 
He little kens what bogs an' banks, 
What ditches, dykes, an' miry stanks 
He has to wade, to jump, or plump in. 
Till ance he's sinkin' to the rump in 
Some ugly mire, or heedless rins on, 
Till, whack — a stane he braks his shins on 
Syne rues that e'er he left the road 
On whilk he aft had safely trod. 

Yet, to be candid an' proceed. 
That temptin' path may ablins lead 
Through gow'ny glens an' shady bowers. 
By siller streams befring'd wi' flowers, 
Whare bees sip honey a' the day. 
An' lichtsome lammics sportive play ; 



EPISTLES. 171 

Whare birdies sing in brake or tree — 
In short, an Eden to the e'e. 

Yet liere although it chance to lead him, 
An' pleasure for a moment feed him, 
Some rascal root or broken bramble 
May trip his tae an' gar him tumble ; 
Some wickit wasp or gleg may sting him ; 
Some whirlwind in the stream may ding him ; 
Some thun'er-storm may burst aboon him, 
An' waterspout descend an' drown him — 
But truce ! — 'tis clear as these my rhymes, 
That " man was made to mourn" at times ; 
Sae here I quit my illustrations, 
Nor langer try a bridegroom's patience. 

The bonnie bride you've set ycr heart on 
May care or sorrow never dart on ; 
For tho' as yet I hinna seen 
The lovely lustre o' her e'en, 
I'm tauld she 's bloomin', plump an' pretty, 
An' weel can lilt a Scottish ditty : 
Sac, for yer sake, my guid auld cronnie, 
I wish her just as weel as ony. 

I hope before ye made the bargain, 
Ye thiim'd ilk phrenologic organ, 
An' studied Combe for weeks thegither, 
Afore ye spak' about the tether ; 
An' didna set yer love alane 
Upon the lustre o' her e'en. 



172 



You'll mind I tauld you wecl about it ; 
An' tho' ye hauflins seem'd to doubt it, 
I'll pledge my aith in droggrel rhyme, 
Gin e'er we meet again in time, 
I'll tell you by her bumps alane, 
Her fauts or virtues ane by ane. 
An' hark ye, when I come to see you. 
Some sage advice I mean to gie you, 
'Bout Nursery Rhymes an' Nursery Rattles, 
'Bout teethin'-rings an' penny whittles ; 
Meantime be learnin' " Willie Winkie,"* 
( Vide series third o' " Whistle Binkie ;") 
An' whan I chance to come across ye, 
Ye'se get instructions, viva voce. 

Now G , to end my cadgy canter. 

May never Fate nor fell mishanter. 
Disturb the joys I wish sincerely. 
To cluster roun' you late an' early — 
May Father Time, as on he goes. 
Ne'er catch you wi' a bluidy nose ; 
Nor broken shins ; nor clutches red, 
Rivin' the hair frae aff yer head — 
May never Winter's midnicht roar, 
Assail you greetin' at the door, 
Nor death-like in the stack-mou' cow*rin'. 
Nor ower the rigs in terror scourin', 



* A first-rate Nursery song, by Mr. William Millei 
author of " Nursery Rhymes." 



173 



While peats, orstanes, or cudgels cruel, 
Pursue fast-fungin' frae your jewel ; 
But cheerfu' by the chimla cheek, 
May ye, at ease, yer lowmans beek, 
An' Peace an' Peggie grace yer ha', 
Till hafFets whiter than the snaw, 
Down ower yer happy temples thinly fa'. 

Peter Still, 
Millbank, Nov., 1843. 



15^ 



174 EPISTLES. 



TO MR. J. MILNE. 

AUTHOR OF " THE WIDOW AND HER SON : A BOROUGH TALE 
OF 1782, IN FOUR CANTOS." 

Dear Sir, while winter rides amain 

Ower Buchan's desolated plain ; 

An' niclit her sable mantle flings 

On Boreas' snaw-encumber'd wings ; 

Fu' blythe aside the evening ingle, 

Whare mammy, dad, an' wee-things mingle, 

I scratch an' scrape my prosy noddle, 

An' tune ance mair my Buchan fiddle ; 

Intent this nicht afore I sleep. 

Its knotty strings again to sweep, 

An' send you south my thoughts in rhyme. 

Or rhyme an' prose commix'd sublime. 

I pledged my word, that nicht we met, 
To shore you something cauld or het ; 
Sae here inspir'd by memory's licht, 
Whilk now has plac'd you in my sicht, 
I'm seatit on my nag, right proud, 
Resolv'd to make that promise guid. 



175 



I've nae pretence to education — 
It wadna suit my humble station ; 
But frae my heart sincere I'll sing, 
The' tuneless as a broken string ; 
An' as I ken yer sterlin' merit, 
In true poetic, frien'ly spirit, 
(Tho' short the time we spent wi' ither,) 
I mean to treat you as a brither : 
For hearts congenial, when they're met, 
Are soon to ane anither knit ; 
'Tis Nature's law, an' dear to me 
The sons o' song shall ever be. 
Let prosy mortals mock an' jeer. 
But this I'll say withouten fear ; 
The muse's sons in ilka age, 
Sin' Daddy Time first trod the stage, 
Hae been o' men the pick an' wale, 
The vera life o' life itsel' ; 
An' but for them 'tis clear as light. 
The prosy world wad die outright. 

Say, what a barren blank were spring. 
Did lark or linnet never sing ? 
The infant bud — the opening flower — 
The fragrant grove — ^the leafy bower, 
Wad lose one half their sweet perfume, 
An' sickly languish in their bloom. 

Just so, the dull prosaic thrang, 
Without the poet's magic sang. 



176 



(Tho' sma' the price they set upon't,) 
Wad shortly feel an unco want ; 
An' tho' alive wad sleep for ever, 
As dull an' dead's a frozen river ; 
Or like a fiddle wantin' strings ; 
Or like a lark wi' clippit wings — 
A crackit flute — a broken whistle, 
Or, to be brief, a wither'd thistle. 

Your " Tale" about the hapless widow, 
Langsyne I got a glorious feed o'. 
But little thought whan first I read it. 
That e'er I'd greet the bard that made it : 
But noo, sin' Fate has will'd it sae, 
I hope we'll brithers be for aye ; 
'Twad be a feather in my bonnet. 
Your list o' fricn's, were I upon it ; 
An' tho' my merit's unco sma', 
I fain wad hope you'll make it law, 
That Milne an' the " Buchan clown" 
Be frien's, till Time's last sun gac down. 

My rhyme wi' egotistic clatter. 
It wadna set me to bespatter ; 
But this, at least, I may reveal, 
I'm just a simple, rhymin' chiel ; 
Can' shed a tear, v.'ithouten shame. 
Whan duty seems the same to claim ; 
At ither times can laugh as loud 
As thunder burstin' frae the cloud ; 



177 



Can look an' think whan ithers clatter, — 
But ne'er hae learned the way to flatter ; 
Can love my frien's as lang's they're true, — 
Whan fause, can simply say, Adieu ; 
Can swig a waucht o' water clear. 
Or toom a jug o' reamin' beer ; 
Can even taste the " mountain dew," 
An' ance or twice was tum'lin' fou. 
In short, I'm just a " country clown," 
An' such, I beg, you'll set me down ; 
An' should we chance to meet again, 
You'll see I've tauld the truth fu' plain. 

As for yoursel', I'll tell you plainly, 
I'd own you as a brither fainly : 
Your phrenologic organs, sleely 
I scrutinized them pretty freely. 
Benevolence an' Veneration, 
I mark'd them full wi' exultation ; 
An' ithers a' to virtue leanin', 
Fu' plump an' roun', I gat my e'en on. 
'Twas ablins far frae manners guid. 
Yet polish'd peers hae been as rude ; 
Sae nae apology I'll mak'. 
But simply lat you ken the fact. 

An' here my doggrel rhyme I'll en't, 
An' ower the Don shall shortly sen't ; 
Whatever price you set upon it, 
In twa short hours, afF loof, I've done it : 



178 



An' fain wad crave an' early answer, 
Dated frae afF your winged pranccr ; 
An' wi' your leave, without a switlier, 
I'll prent an' publish baith thegither, 

Meantime, adieu ! — lang may you sing, 
Unscath'd by a' the ills that cling 
To feeble man in this low vale, 
Whare for a while he's doom'd to dwell ; 
An' whan at last in ripe auld age. 
You quit o' time the tiresome stage, 
Ayont the bonnie mornin' star, 
May songs sublimer — sweeter far, 
In concert wi' the ransom'd throng, 
For ever warble frae your tongue. 

P. Still. 
MUlbanh, February, 1844. 



179 



TO MR. WILLIAM THOM, INVERURY, 

AUTHOR OF " THE BLIND BOY's PRANKS." 

" See, richly clad in native worth, 
Yon bard of Nature venture forth, 

In simple modest tale ; 
Applauding millions catch the song — 
The raptur'd rocks the notes prolong, 

And hand ihem to the gale." 

Tannahill. 

Dear Willie, bard o' Ur3''s banks, 

O what a feast » The Blind Boy's Pranks" 

Hae been to me an' mine I 
The miser ower his hoarded treasure, 
Gat never sic a draught o' pleasure, 

Nor drunkard ower his wine ; 
Nae a' the great folks' dainty dishes, 

Had they been plac'd afore me, 
Wad been sae welcome to my wishes, 

Or brought sic raptures ower me. 

Excvise then, my muse then, 
Wha fondly sings yer praise. 

For dearly, sincerely 
I like 3'er bonny lays. 

" The Blind Boy's Pranks" sae terse an' bonnie, 
Never hae been exccll'd by ony. 



180 



In country or in town, 
Since e'er the wanton bard o' Ayr 
Forsook this weary warld o' care, 

To sing ayont the moon. 
Blythe Hogg, in mony a witchin' line, 

Gart numbers nicely clink ; 
But he's awa', an' aye sin' syne 

It's gien me pain to think 

That Scotlan' was dotlin'. 

Till ance " The Blind Boy's Pranks, 

Sae touchin', bewitchin', 
Appear'd on Ury's banks. 

Auld Scotlan' noo may dry the tear 
That's dim'd lier e'e for mony a year, 

An' sigh for Burns nae mair ; 
But mither-like creep down aside ye, 
An' spread her couthie wings to hide ye 

Frae poverty an' care. 
She needna blush to own the bard 

O' Ury's " fairy wave ;" 
For whare's the sang she ever heard. 
Like " Jeanie's lowly grave ?" 
Tho' cheerless, 'tis peerless, 

An' lays yer bosom bare — 
Sae feelin', revealin' 

The love that lingers there. 

Lang may ye live to court the lasses, 
That dwall on bonnie mount Parnassus, 



181 



An' aye their favour gain, 
Till Fame, rejoicin' ower her bard, 
Canter on ilka flowery sward 

'Tween John o' Groat's an' Spain. 
I hope to see " Dark Benachie" 

Eclipse " Dark Lochnagar ;" 
Fair Garioch's howes a' hallow'd be. 

An' bards come frae afar, 

To wander an' ponder 
Whare Ury wimples on, 

" To meet wi' an' greet wi' " 
" Its mountain cousin Don." 

Fareweel, dear bard ! fareweel — sing on ; 
Tho' "gentle Ury" an' "dark Don" 

Again I never see. 
Till death my spark o' life congeal, 
I'll breathe a prayer for Willie's weal, 

Tho' yet unkent to me ; 
Accept my hamely, rustic strain — 

'Tis a' I hae to gie, 
For riches an' the muses' train, 
But seldom can agree ; 
Nae matter, Auld Nature 

Is free alike to a', 
An' charms us, an' warms us, 
Tho' poverty may gnaw. 

P. Still. 
milbanh, March 22, 1841. 

16 



182 EPISTLES. 



TO SIR MICHAEL BRUCE OF STENHOUSE 
AND SCOTSTOWN, BARONET. 

Hail, honour'd Sir ! my Buchan lyre, 
Whilk aft I've strung in hog an' mire, 
Nae dreaming that a spark o' fire 

Was in its strings. 
It seems that you an' yours admire 

Its hamely springs. 

Half craz'd wi' pride, as soon's I kent it. 

Obscurity's dark veil I rent it. 

An' rais'd my humble head undauntit. 

An' leukit roun', 
Whan, lo ! my hallan seem'd new paintit. 

My night like noon. 

The path that erst was dark afore me, 
An' far frae Fame's gay garden bore me, 
Was sae transformed, a glow came o'er me 

O' pleasure pure. 
An' thorny brakes that aften tore me 

Became a bower. 

In that same bower I'm seated noo, 
Wi' nor'lan' rhyme my noddle fu', 



183 



My Peg'asus — lark never flew 

On blyther wing 
Whan warbling o'er the morning dew. 

To greet young Spring. 

Its ablins far frae manners good 
My sang on you thus to intrude, 
But simple bards afl turn sae proud 

At sight o' laurels, 
Their passions winna be subdued 

Like lover's quarrels. 

Can he who watches through the night. 
An' pants to see the morning light. 
Regardless turn awa' his sight. 

Or close his eyes, 
Whan Phoebus gilds wi' splendour bright 

The orient skies ? 

Can he who watches maiden's e'e, 
In hopes ae kindly blink to see, 
Turn coldly from his chosen she. 

Whan love's first tear 
Adown her cheek spontaneously 

Comes trembling clear ? 

The wretch, whose heart-strings lang were torn 
By wizard Want, or cankert Scorn, — 
By Fajne or Fortune haply borne 

Beyond their power — 



184 



Say, will he frae his patrons turn 

Wi' cauldrife glower ? 

Nae mair can I my muse subdue, 

An' careless, tliankless turn frae you ; 

The heart that's thrilling through an' through 

Wi' love sincere, 
Maun speak its thoughts, an' speak them true, 

To prince or peer. 

'Tis nature's law, the heart maun swell, 
And kindly back to kindness thrill ;* 
The very flowers that deck the dale, 

See how they spring 
Whan shelter'd frae the frosty gale 

By Phoebus' wing. 

An', eke, whan gane is winter rude, 
The little minstrels o' the wood 
Pour forth their songs o' gratitude. 

An' sae maun I : 
Cauld is the heart that e'er subdued 

A gratefu' sigh. 

Shall he whose sire, at Bannockburn, 
Made Caledonia's faes to mourn, 
Frae Scottish bardie lift a birn 

That shook his shanks. 
An' that same bardie thoughtless turn, 

An' ne'er say. Thanks I 

* " The heart must leap kindly back to kindness." 

Byron. 



185 



No ! by a poet's exultation, 

Whan Fame proclaims his elevation, 

I'll pay in print, before a nation, 

The tribute due, 
And tender here ray Dedication, 

Kind Sir, to you. 

This mark o' gratitude sincere, 
Should ye accept, how proud I'll rear 
Hope's glorious standard o'er the bier 

O' dead Despair, 
And sing, in pleasure's mildest sphere, 

Farewell to care I 

Farewell to woes and sorrows past ; 
Farewell to Poortith's bitter blast ! 
My cares an fears ance from me cast, 

How blythe I'll sing I 
And bloom and blossom to the last. 

Beneath your wing. 

Accept it then, I fain wad pray, 

And bid the poet bless for aye 

The generous hand that pav'd his way 

To Fame's gay bower- 
I'll do it to my dying day. 

And dying hour. 

Meantime, my thanks, sincere an' true, 
I send to Lady Bruce and you, 
16* 



186 



And may ye never, never rue 

What ye hae done 

To strew wi' comforts, kind an' new, 
The road I run. 

Lang may your much-lov'd, honour'd name 

Be dear to Virtue and to Fame ; 

May ne'er the fiends Remorse an' Shame 

Your peace molest, 
But Happiness aye find a liame 

Within your breast. 

Farewell ! my muse I maun restrain, 
But aye while Reason rules my brain — 
While throbs my heart wi' love or pain, 

Or pleasure's thrill — 
Wi' gratitude will I remain 

Yours, Peter Still. 



FROM MR. A. HARPER, ABERCHIRDER, 

TO THE AUTHOR. 

Dear Peter, art thou aye alive, 
And weel, an' singin' sangs, man ? 

Or hae the wasps o' some wild hive 

Clean throwe thee dung their stangs, man? 

The pleasure I can ne'er descrive 
Thy kind epistle gae me. 

And I shall answer it bclyve, 



EPISTLES. 187 

Or may the whitracks hae me 

To gnaw this day I 

Up Tay hast thou made out a trip, 
Whaur scenes sublime astound thee ? 

Or sit'st thou Still by Tihbifs hip, 
Wi' love's fair sprouts around thee ? 

Fu' fain to pree her hinny lip — 

what a peerless pleasure I 

Mair blest, perchance, than they wha grip 
Great scuds o' hidden treasure, 
By nicht or day. 

What news about the Buchan dames ? 

What news o' bonnie Ugie ? 
Sae weel's I like thy pleasing themes, 

And aye they mak' me vogie. 
Whilst straying lone by Deveron's stream. 

Or on the banks o' Bogie — 
Lang may the muse inspire thy dreams, 

Leuk fortune fair or foggie 

On me that day ! 

Few bards there be in Scotlan' born, 

Mat either mird or anter. 
To sing sae sweet at e'en or morn. 

Sin' Robin tint his chanter, 
An' Hogg flang by his touting-horn — 

1 downa fraise nor flanter — 

But this I hae baith " said an' sworn," 
Sae may I 'scape mishanter 

By nicht an' day. 



]S8 



Tho' whyles I ettle at the trade, 

Wi' erfsome fear an' trembling. 
The fient a muckle o't I've made — 

I speak without dissembling — 
At grammar-schulcs I ne'er was bred, 

Nor gabbit in a college ; 
Some strange wind-mills work i' my head 

But as for wasie knowledge — 

Whisht, whisht this day I 

Whan I leuk back on auld langseen. 

Whan falsehood was a ferlie. 
While skippin' o'er youth's flowery green, 

I whistled late an' early ; 
Or straying by the moonlight stream 

Wi' her I lo'ed sae dearly. 
Indulging hope's delicious dream — 

O man ! but things leuk queerly 
Just noo-a-days ! 

Bards did presage an' iron age ; 

'Tis come, I've ta'en a notion — 
For luve's saft Icam we've gas an' steam 

To put a' things in motion. 
And wha can say what projects rare 

The sons o' men may form yet ? 
We'll a' be whirling i' the air 

Like corbies in a storm yet, 

Some windy day I 



EPISTLES. 189 



Waes me ! thir be fell kittle times, 

May weel cause consternation : 
In a' communities an' climes, 

Rage strife and agitation ; 
Sic follies vain, distress an' crimes 

As bleck imagination ; 
To spell them fullj i' my rhymes, 

Wad spen' an inundation 

O' ink this day. 

The falsehood now 'mang fey mankind, 

Alas ! it dings me fairly ; 
A chiel dare hardly speak his mind, 

Wha lo'es to speak sincerely. 
O wae betide the dochty tricks 

O' ilka sly curmudgeon ! 
There's great stramash 'bout politics. 

And mair about religion 

I trow this day ! 

Yet though there be a daftish clan, 

Douce bodies sudna mind them : 
There's mony a faithfu', honest man — 

Tho' hard the lot assign'd him — 
In Britain braid, or Fairy Ian', 

Kend we but whaur to find them, 
We'd clutch them coutliie by the han', 

And to our heartstrings bind them 
Fu' firm that day. 



190 



Gie me the man, whatc'er his creed, 

Whase heart and tongue 's acquainted ; 
Wha speaks tlic truth but fear or dread, 

Howe'er he may be taunted. 
" A friend in need 's a friend indeed ;" 

But whaur's he whan he's wanted ? 
Wha will for wretched poortith plead, 

And ne'er be dais'd nor daunted 

By knaves that day ? 

Lang may'st thou wind thy winsome reed ; 

Good angels aye watch o'er thee ! 
Till gray hairs grace thy honour'd head. 

And kith an' kin adore thee : 
And when thou'rt laid amang the dead. 

May poets a' deplore thee. 
And sound thy praise in mournfu' leid. 
And tenderest tears drap o'er thee 
That waesome day ! 

A. Harper, 
Aherchirder, February^ 1845. 



SONGS. 



PEGGIE MUNRO. 
Air — " Lass o' Glenshee." 

Dn the bosom of Buchan there blooms a sweet flow'ret, 

None fairer or purer in Britain dotJi blow — 
The Rose of tlie Ugie — ye angels watch o'er it I 

That Rose is my darling, sweet Peggie Munro. 
But where shall I find, in the bounds of creation, 

An image to picture her bosom of snow ! 
A.way with tlie lily — the fairest carnation — 

No emblems are they of sweet Peggie Munro. 

Ye breezes that blow o'er the groves of sweet myrtle, 

Ye gales of the morning be swift as the roe ; 
Thou emblem of chastity — love-loving turtle, 

O bring me an emblem of Peggie Munro. 
Ye Muses that sing in the courts of Apollo, 

O bring me the flowers on Parnassus that blow 
Ye zephyrs that sigh on the breast of the billow, 

O waft me an emblem of Peggie Munro. 



192 SONGS. 

But wliy am I raving- ! 'tis vain to implore you, 

'Tis not to be found in the regions below ; 
Her image ! O no, it was never before you — 

So spotless and pure is svi'eet Peggie Munro. 
Yc cingels, defend her, and keep her unstained, 

And watch all her steps while she wanders below 
Her eyes weeping o'er me, 'twere Paradise gained, 

To die on the bosom of Peggie Munro. 



THE GOWDEN RING. 

O Jamie, whare's the gowden ring ? 

An' whare's the necklace rare ? 
An' whare's the pretty velvet string. 

To tie my raven hair ? 
An' whare'g the gloves — the gaudy gloves- 

Or silken gown sae fine ? 
An' whare's the pretty flowers o' love. 

Ye said wad a' be mine ? 

Whan last we met, O Jamie, think 

On vows ye swore to me ! 
Reca' the burnie's flow'ry brink, 

Reca' the birken tree. 
Ye ken ye vow'd — I heard ye plead, 

An' couldna say ye na — 
O Jamie I baud my heavy head. 

It's liko to rend in twa. 



193 



To name the ring, or necklace braw, 

Nae mair in time I'll daur ; 
But whare's the heart ye wil'd awa- 

O Jamie I tell me whare ? 
I'll hie me to the burnie side, 

An' aye I'll seek it there ; 
I'll be the burnie's dowie bride, 

An' never fash ye mair ! 

I'll tell the burnie a' my waes, 

I'll tell the birken tree ; 
I'll kneel me on the gow'ny braes. 

An' aye I'll pray for thee ; 
An' to the bonny moon I'll sing, 
' Aside the birken tree. 
An' I'll forget the gowdcn ring 

Ye fausely promised me. 



THE GLEN O' THE WEST. 

KEN ye the glen whare the wee burnie rows ? 
Or ken ye the bower whare the daffodil grows ? 
Or ken ye the lassie that languishes there, 

Like a shelterless flower in the keen mountain air ' 

1 wad tell ye her name, but my heart says me na. 
An' the glen maun be nameless an' kenless to a' ; 

An' there's nane in the warld kens the dool that I dree 
Sin' the day that it first shed its licht on my e'e. 
17 



194 SONGS. 

But, the glen o' the west — O the glen o' the west, 
An' the lassie that dwalls in the glen o' the west ; 
There's a glance in her e'e that disturbs aye my rest, 
An' wiles me awa to the glen o' the west. 

Yet, I daurna be seen in yon love-haunted glen, 
Tho' I dream o't an' sing o't, again an' again ; 
The lassie that wons in't wad welcome me there, 
But I daurna be seen in its bowers ony mair ; 
For her daddie has gowd, an' her mammie has pride, 
An' my lassie is doom'd to be some baron's bride ; 
While I, hapless wicht, at the tail o' the plough, 
Wi' a pennylcss purse, their ambition maun rue. 
But, the glen o' the west — O the glen o' the west, 
An' the woun' that I gat i' the glen o' the west. 
It will soon be my dead, an' whan ance I'm at rest, 
O ye'll bury me deep i' the glen o' the west. 



JEANIE'S LAMENT. 

Air—" Lord Gregory." 

I NEVER thocht to thole the waes, 

It's been my lot to dree ; 
I never thocht to sigh sae sad, 

Whan first I sigh'd for thee. 
I thocht your heart was like mine ain, 

As true as true could be ; 
I couldna think there was a stain 

In ane sae dear to me. 



195 



Whan first amang the dewy flowers, 

Aside yon siller stream, 
My lowin' heart was press'd to yours, 

Nae purer did they seem — 
Nae purer seem'd the draps o' dew, 

The flowers on whilk. they hung. 
Than seem'd the heart I felt in you, 

As to that heart I clung. 

But I was young an' thochtleas then, 

An' easy to beguile ; 
My mither's warnin's hadna weight, 

'Bout man's deccitfu' smile ; 
But noo, alas I whan she is dead, 

I've shed the sad, saut tear, 
An' hung my heavy, heavy head 

Aboon ray father's bier 1 

They saw their earthly hope betray'd ; 

They saw their Jeanie fade ; 
They couldna thole the heavy stroke, 

An' baith are lowly laid ! 
Oh, Jamie ! — but thy name again 

Shall ne'er be breath'd by me, 
For speechless through yon gow'ny glen 

I'll wander till I die. 



196 



ROVIN' TAM. 

Air — " DuncaiTGray." 

Rovin' Tarn cam' doun the glen, 
Blythe, blythe an' cheery O : 

«« Nancy, will ye be mine ain ? 
Will ye be my dearie O ?" 

Nancy blush'd, an' turn'd awa, 

Hadna will to say him na, 

Answer'd wi' a queer guffaw, 
" Me be your dearie O ! 

" Svvithe awa to Robin's Jean, 

Big, big an' bonnie O ; 
Doun the dale to ' beauty's queen,' 

Sweet, sweet as honey O I 
Hae they baith beguil'd you. Tarn ? 
That's the reason here you cam' — 
Wae's my heart, my bonnie lam', 

Try, try my grannie O !" 

Lang he pled his cause in vain, 

Sad, sad an' sorry O ; 
Nancy wadna ease his pain, 

Vow'd 'twas her glory O. 



SONGS. 197 

Up he gat, wi' eldritch scream, 
Swearin' life was but a dream, 
Plum pit into Ugie's stream, 
Deep, deep an' miry O I 

Nancy scream'd, an' scream'd again, 

Loud, loud an' eerie O ; 
" Mercy, Tarn I I'll be your ain — 

Yes, I'll be your dearie O !" 
Sinkin' Tarn began to rise, 
Struggl'd sair to win the prize, 
On the bank the rover lies. 

Wet, wet an' weary O. 

Ere anither moon was gane, 

Licht as ony feather O, 
AfF they went to bid Mees John 

Twine the marriage tether O. 
Soon he twin'd it roun' the pair, 
Wish'd them joy for evermair — 
Muckle pleasure may they share, 

Lang, lang thegither O. 



17* 



198 



THE FAITHLESS WHISPER. 

I STOOD beside the Ugie's stream, 

Below the willow tree, 
An' gaz'd on ance the dearest spot 

On a' the warld to me : 
The spot whare Mary whisper'd low : 

" I'm thine, an' only thine I" 
I thocht I heard that whisper still, 

An' saw again langsyne. 

I thocht I felt her bosom beat ; 

I thocht I heard her sigh ; 
I saw the tear upon her cheek. 

That on my heart did lie I 
I gaz'd again — my e'en grew dim, 

The sun forgot to shine ; 
I grasp'd the aged willow tree, 

An' sabb'd aloud — " Langsyne I" 

I sunk upon the flowery sward ; 

I sunk upon my knee, 
An' leant my burnin' brow against 

The frien'ly willow tree ; 
I clasp'd my ban's upon my heart, — 

This heavy heart o' mine. 
An' pray'd aloud — " Blot out the past 

Forgie, forget langsyne ; 



199 



" An' lat me never, never hear 

The faithless whisper mair ; 
An' lat me never, never see 

A face again sae fair I" 
Yet, risin' up, I thocht I saw't 

Like alabaster shine ; 
The faithless whisper haunts me yet, 

An' drags me to langsyne. 



YE NEEDNA BE COURTIN' AT ME. 

« Air — " John Todd." 

Ye needna be courtin' at me, auld man. 

Ye needna be courtin' at me ; 
Ye're threescore an' three, and ye're blin' on an e'e, 

Sae ye needna be courtin' at me, auld man, 
Ye needna be courtin' at me. 

Stan' afFnoo, an' just lat me be, auld man, 

Stan' alF noo, an' just lat me be ; 
" Ye're auld, an' ye're cauld, an' ye're blin', an' ye're 
bald," 
An' ye're nae for a lassie like me, auld man, 
Ye're nac for a lassie like me. 

Hae patience, an' hear me a wee, sweet lass, 
Hae patience, an' hear me a wee ; 



200 



I've gowpens o' gowd, an' an aumry weel stow'd, 
An' a heart that lo'es nane but thee, sweet lass, 
A heart that lo'es nane but thee. 

" I'll busk ye as braw as a queen, sweet lass, 

I'll busk you as braw as a queen ; 
I've guineas to spare, an', hark yc, what's mair, 

I'm only twa score an' fifteen, sweet lass, 
Only twa score an' fifteen." 

Gae hame to your gowd, an' your gear, auld man, 
Gae hame to your gowd, an' your gear ; 

There's a laddie I ken, has a heart like mine ain, 
An' to me he shall ever be dear, auld man. 
To me he shall ever be dear. 

Get aiF noo, an' fash me nae mair, auld man. 

Get afF noo an' fash me nae mair ; 
There's a something in love that your gowd canna move, 

I'll be Johnny's altho' I gang bare, auld man, 
I'll be Johnny's altho' I gang bare. 



THE ROSE OF INVERUGIE. 

SuMaiER wi' its sweets are gane, 
An' Autumn wi' its gowden grain, 
An' bleak an' cheerless is the plain 
Whare rolls the winding Ugie : 



?0l 



Fierce adown the frozen dale, 
Winter bangs the heavy hail, 
An' ilka birdie hangs its tail 

'Mang branches bare by Ugie. 

But what care I for frost or snaw, 
Or a' the bitter blasts that blaw ; 
I'll get my plaid, an' steal awa 

To bonnie Inverugie ; 
Tho' wintry winds are sabbin' sair, 
An' sweepin' Buchan's bosom bare. 
There blooms a flow'ret sweetly there, — 

The Rose of Inverugie. 

The summer flowers that deck the lea, 
May charm the sense, an' please the e'e, 
But dearer far's the flower to me 

That blooms at Invec^igie ; 
O what to me were summer's pride. 
Or autumn's riches, spreadin' wide, 
If sliehtit by my promis'd bride, 

The Rose of Inverugie. 

But, while I see her sunny smile, 
The bleakest, barest, barren isle. 
To me were paradise the while. 

Til*' far from Inverugie ; 
Wi' her mine ain, come wae, come weel, 
Nae ithcr want through life I'll ftel, 
But clasp her to my bosom leal, — 

The Rose of Inverugie. 



202 



THE DISAPPOINTED SAILOR. 

I STOOD, in the silence of night, 

Where Spring all her beauties had spread, 
And the moon all her magical light 

On the bosom of Nature had shed. 

I press'd to my soft-swelling heart 
My lov'd one — my promised bride ; 

And I said, with a sigh, " We must part ! 
May the heavens, my love, be your guide." 

She wept, and her beautiful hand 
I tremblingly grasped in mine ; 

And I swore, by the sea and the land, 
" My dearest, for ever I'm thine." 

She shook like a leaf in the wind. 

And her eyes seem'd a fountain of love : 

Her vows I have sealed in my mindi 
And they're known and recorded above. 

One kiss ! and away I did go. 

Where ocean roll'd wavy and wide ; 

Relying that pure as the snow. 

Was my soul-chosen, beautiful bride. 

When afar on the moon-silver'd sea. 
In the sweetness and silence of night, 

Her image was ever with me. 

And I feasted on dreams of delight ! 



203 



When the tempests of winter arose, 

And the billows were bursting on high ; 

When I fought in the thick of my foes, 
Still I thought upon her with a sigh. 

When the hills of old Albion once more, 
And the white cliffs of Dover, drew near ; 

How I deem'd that my wand'rings were o'er, 
And I gaz'd for a while through a tear. 

I hasted my treasure to claim ; 

I sought her with raptures divine ; 
I found — she had changed her name, 

And a ring on her finger did shine I 

Hang a veil on the virgin of night ; 

Spread a mantle of black over me ; 
Tell the world that darkness is light : 

I'm away — I'm away to the sea 1 



THE WEE BLIND ROGUIE O. 

Air — " My dear Highland Laddie O." 

Dear were the days when my young heart, sae vogie O 
Was first made to bow to the wee blind roguie O ; 
It flutter'd in my breast, like a new-cag'd canary O, 
An' time sped awa, like a fleet-footit fairy O. 



204 SONGS. 

The glen wi' its buds an' its blossoms, sae bonnie O, 
Seem'd a paradise afloat on a sweet sea o' honey O, 
Whan I first staw awa to tlie dear banks o' Ugie O, 
To fa' at the feet o' the wee blind roguie O. 

O what car'd I then for the cracks o' ilk cronie O, 
Or the jokes an' the jeers o' my auld blythe grannie O, 
An' what then to me were my caup or my coggie O ; 
Sae fu' was my heart o' the wee blind roguie O. 

I'll mind till I die on the lang broom, sae bloomy O. 
That grew on the dear brae, sae lythesomc an' gloomy O, 
Whan I first prest my heart to the heart o' my Peggie O, 
An' sunk in the arms o' the wee blind roguie O. 

There's nae day sae dear as our young days, sae sunny O, 
Whan our life-flowers are fraucht wi' their dew an' their 

honey O, 
An' some bonnie lass gies our heart sic a shoggie O, 
That we fa' in the arms o' the wee blind roguie O. 



205 



THE SAILOR'S DEPARTURE. 

'Tis parting time, my Mary, 

We may not longer linger, 
But let me place, my Mary, 

This ring upon thy finger — « 
This ring upon thy finger, love, 

'Twill mind you upon me ; 
'Twill mind you of our parting, love, 

When I am far at sea. 

The anchor's weigh'd, my Mary ; 

The breeze is briskly blowing I 
And o'er the sea, my Mary, 

Thy sailor now is going, — 
Thy sailor now is going, love, 

Full many a league from thee : 
O say thou wilt be constant, love, 

When I am far at sea. 

Farewell I I go, my Mary, 

Upon thy love relying ; 
Be true, be true, my Mary, 

For time is fleetly flying — 
For time is fleetly flying, love, 

And I'll be home from sea, 
And never more — O never, love, 

I'll sail away from thee. 
18 



206 



PEGGIE'S SOLILOQUY. 

Air — " Fly we to some desert isle." 

Whitsunday will soon be here, 

Birdies beck to ane anither ; 
Pease an' beans begin to brier ; 

Mild an' sunnj grows the weather ; 
Laramles bleat on ilka brae, 
Music pours frac ilka spray, 
Flow'rets court the fost'rin' ray, 

An' merry May will brak' my tether, 

Hame again to Ugie-side, 

Happy, happy will I dander, 
There to be my Willie's bride. 

Never mair in time to wander : 
Cantie in yon cosie biel, 
I will lo'e my laddie leal. 
An' do my best to keep him weel. 

An' nurse his lowin' love, sae tender. 

Wi' my fee I'll buy a wheel, 

Sarks an' sheets I'll spin fu' clever. 

Winter's cauld he sanna feel ; 
I'll be blythe an cident ever. 

Haste awa ye weary Jiours, 

Bloom again ye simmer flowers, 

A' we wish will then be ours, 

An' syne till death we'll thank the Giver. 



SONGS, 207 



O TELL ME WILL YE GO. 

Air — " Kelvin Grove," 

TELL me will ye go, bonnie lassie O, 
Where the Ugic's waters flow, bonnie lassie O? 

Where the daisy blooms unseen, 
On the misty meadow green, 
Where I wander afl alane, 
Bonnie lassie O ? 

Wad ye wander there wi' me, bonnie lassie O, 
When the dew is on the lea, bonnie lassie O ? 
When the balmy zephyrs creep. 
O'er the moon-bcgildcd deep. 
An' the warld is hush'd asleep, 
Bonnie lassie O ? 

1 wad press my heart to thine, bonnie lassie O, 
An' confess the flame divine, bonnie lassie O ; 

With my arms around you cast, 
An' my bosom beatin' fast, 
Swear to love you to the last, 
Bonnie lassie O. 

O your blushin' check reveals, bonnie lassie O, 

What your burnin' bosom feels, bonnie lassie O, 

An' the glances o' your e'e, 

O they're dearer far to me 

Than the honey to the bee, 

Bonnie lassie O. 



208 



O haste an' come awa, bonnie lassie O, 
For nae langcr we'll be twa, bonnie lassie O, 
But we'll twine our hearts in anc, 
An' for evermair, my Jean, 
Ye'se be Ugie's peerless queen, 
Bonnie lassie O. 



TO MARY. 



O Mary, dinna look sae cauld, 

Nor meet me wi' disdain, love, 
" For in my bosom's benmost fauld 

For ever ye'll remain love ;" 
Reca' the gowden days gane by, 
Whan first ye breathed the tender sigh, 
An' fondly vowed by yonder sky 

Your heart was a' my ain, love. 

Those blissfu' hours I spent wi' thee, 
Still roun' my memory twine, love ; 

O lat that soul.besiegin' e'e 
Resume its wonted shine, love. 

Ae kindly look O deign to spare I 

That cloudy e'e is a' my care : 

Whan love's yotmg tear was tremblin' there, 
I thought that e'e divine, love. 



309 



Rcca' the hours ye spent wi' me 

In yonder misty glen, lore ; 
Reca' the witchfu' willow tree, 

An' sweetly smile again, love : 
A cloud may dim the briglitest noon 
That e'er was seen the warld aroun'. 
Yet gloriously the sun gang down 
Ayont the western main, love. 



"WOMAN'S WITCHFU' E'E." 

I LIKE the sun that shines so brigiit ; 

I like the modest moon ; 
I like the stars, the planets too, 

An' a' the orbs aboon ; 
I like to see the mornin' star 

Blink bonnie o'er the sea ; 
But there's an orb outshines them a', 

'Tis " woman's witchfu' e'e." 

Ac beam o' love frae that blest orb 

Gies youth a livelier hue. 
An' drives awa the clouds o' fate 

Frae sorrow's sickly brow. 
Dispels the darkest shades o' wo 

That heart is doom'd to dree : 
Tliere's nae an orb in yonder sky 

Like » woman's witchfu' e'c." 
18* 



'Tis there the heart pours forth its woes, 

Ower sad for tongue to share ; 
The tears o' love, and pity's tears. 

Speak nameless secrets there ; 
'Tis there the tremblin' lover reads 

The soul's sincerity ; 
Oh ! whare's the orb in 3^ondcr sky 

Like " woman's witchfu' e'e ?" 

Ye powers that watch my countless steps. 

An' a' my wanderings ken, 
In this my weary pilgrimage, 

In pleasure or in pain : 
Ware'er my hameless feet may roam, 

Whate'er I'm doom'd to dree, 
O lat me live beneath the light 

O' » woman's witchfu' ee !" 



211 



ON HER MAJESTY QUEEN VICTORIA'S 
SECOND VISIT TO SCOTLAND. 

(Written at Dundee, September 11th, 1844.) 

Air — " Kelvin Grove." 

O ye're welcome to Dundee, bonnie lassie O, 

And happy may you be, bonnie lassie O ; 

On the banks o' " queenly Tay," 

There are joyful hearts to-day. 

Should they ne'er again be gay, 

Bonnie lassie O. 

There is love in ilka e'e, bonnie lassie O, 
And its a' to welcome thee, bonnie lassie O ; 
For our Scottish hearts are leal, 
Though they're alien doom'd to feel 
The heavy hand o' Peel, 
Bonnie lassie O. 

But we maunna tell to thee, bonnie lassie O, 

A' the ills we're doomed to dree, bonnie lassie O 

For your bosom wadna thole 

A' the waes that we could tell, 

Should our tide of sorrows roll, 

Bonnie lassie O. 

But you're welcome to the Tay, bonnie lassie O, 
And we'll baud a holiday, bonnie lassie O ; 



212 



E'en the tattcr'd sons o' toil, 
Tho' they live in want the while, 
Fain wad meet you wi' a smile, 
Bonnie lassie O. 

They hae loving hearts an' true, bonme lassie O, 
Tho' they're sinking sadl}^ noo, bonnie lassie O, — 
But ye maunna, maunna see 
Ilka hollow, hopeless e'e, 
That wad weepiri' welcome thee, 
Bonnie lassie O. 

May the tide of pleasure flow-, bonnie lassie O, 
Round your heart where'er you go, bonnie lassie O ; 

'Mang our heathy mountains blue. 

May you find a welcome true, 

And your Royal Consort too, 
Bonnie lassie O. 

Lang and happy be your reign, bonnie lassie O, 
O'er a people a' your ain, bonnie lassie O ; 
And may Peace for ever smile 
On our bonnie British isle, 
Crown'd wi' Plenty a' the while, 
Bonnie lassie O. 

Whan your earthly reign is done, bonnie lassie O, 
And Eternity begun, bonnie lassie O, 

'Neath a never-fading croun, 

Far ayont the bonnie moon. 

May we meet wi' you aboon, 
Bonnie lassie O. 



213 



THE WIDOW'S LAMENT. 

Air — " Good nighl and joy be wi' ye a'." 

I H4VE lov'd the flowery howes, 
Where Buchan's bonnie burnies row ; 

And I have lov'd the broomy knowes, 
Where rasps and roddins wildly grow : 

Her gowany glens, her sunny braes — 
O dearly hae I lov'd them a' ; 

1 wander'd there in early days, 

Wi' him that death has taen awa. 

I lov'd to list the lintie's sang. 

The lo'esorae laverock's blythesome lay 
The mavis' mellow notes amang 

The green, the merry woods o' May ; 
I sang as biythe, as free o' care, 

As ony, ony o' them a' ; 
But noo I sigh an' sab fu' sair. 

For him that death has taen awa. 

Buchan's howes are bonnie howes. 
Their like on earth ye winna see ; 

As clear, as pure ilk burnie flows. 
As flow'd my Willie's love to me : 

1 like them yet, though noo they're lane, 

O dearly do I like them a'. 
Though there I'll never meet again 
Wi' him that death has taen awa. 



214 



They mind me aye on Willie's smile, 

They mind me aye on Willie's e'e, 
They mind mo aye on Willie's toil, 

For mony a day he toil'd for me : 
They aye bring- back the past to me — 

They're dear memorials ane an' a', 
But I wad leave them a' to be 

Wi' him that death has taen awa. 



FAREWELL TO MY JEAN. 

Air — " Captain O'Kean." 
(Inscribed to Mr. Peter Still.) 
Whase bosom ne'er heav'd wi' love's sweet-thrilling ai 
guish ? 
What heart hath no sorrowful sympathies known ? — 
O lang I've been doora'd thus to sigh and to languish 

For the loves and the friendships o' days that are flowr 
Ilk swift-fleeting year draws the warm-flowing tear. 

As sad I revisit ilk soul-moving scene — 
While by this clear fountain, or up yon rude mountain, 
I pensively wander and weep for my Jean. 

How charming the days when I roam'd wi' my dearie. 
Attending our flocks these wild valleys amang ! 

Whan we danc'd on the knowe round the rose-tree s; 
cheery, 
Or wade the pure burnie that wimpled alang : — 



SONGS. 215 

O ! guileless was she, as a lamb on the lea, 
Like dew upon violets her mild, melting e'en, 

Her smile sae endearing my artless heart cheering — 
O sweet are youth's pleasures ! O dear was my Jean I 

On the flow'r-mantled thorn still the linnet chants gaily ; 

Primroses an' daisies still deck the green brae ; 
The lambkins dance glad in the warm sunny valley, 

But sad is my bosom — my widowed heart wae ; 
For deep hangs the gloom o'er yon cauld, silent tomb, 

Whare sleeps my lov'd darling sae lowly alane I 
With smile sae endearing nae mair my heart cheering — 

Adieu to youth's pleasures — farewell to my Jean I 

When wild howling storms set the dark woods in motion ; 

When loud pealing thunders 'mid pitchy clouds roll ; 
When the red setting moon meets the foam-spirting ocean, 

Oh I these are the scenes that delight my sad soul 
The lone blighted leas, the bare whistling trees, 

The mist-shrouded mountains my haunts aye hat' 
been, — 
From the hoar cliffs surrounding, a deep voice is sounding : 

" Adieu to life's pleasures — farewell to my Jean I" 

1 

Note. The above beautiful and impassioned song, is 
the composition of Mr. A. Harper, Aberchirder, Banff. 
?hire. Mr. Harper is a gentleman now in the decline of 
life; possessed of an amiable and refined mind, and 
being naturally of a retiring and unassuming disposition, 
although the author of many exquisite poems and songs, 
he is almost unknown — except to a few congenial friends 

beyond his own locality. Instead of thrusting himself 



214 



They mind me aye on Willie's smile, 

They mind me aye on Willie's e'e, 
They mind me aye on Willie's toil, 

For mony a day he toil'd for me : 
They aye bring back the past to me — 

They're dear memorials ane an' a', 
But I wad leave them a' to be 

Y/i' him that death has taen awa. 



FAREWELL TO MY JEAN. 

Air — " Captain O'Kean." 
(Inscribed to Mr. Peter Still.) 
Whase bosom ne'er heav'd wi' love's sweet-thrilling an- 
guish ? 
What heart hath no sorrowful sympathies known ? — 
O lang I've been doom'd thus to sigh and to languish 

For the loves and the friendships o' days that are flown I 
Ilk swift-fleeting year draws the warm-flowing tear, 

As sad I revisit ilk soul-moving scene — 
While by this clear fountain, or up yon rude mountain, 
I pensively wander and Vvcep for my Jean. 

How charming the days when I roam'd wi' my dearie. 
Attending our flocks these wild valleys amang! 

Whan we danc'd on the knowc round the rose-tree sae 
cheery. 
Or wade the pure burnie that wimpled alang : — 



SONGS. 215 

O ! guileless was she, as a lamb on the lea, 
Like dew upon violets her mild, melting e'en, 

Her smile sae endearing my artless heart cheering — 
O sweet are youth's pleasures ! O dear was my Jean I 

On the flow'r-mantlcd thorn still the linnet chants gaily ; 

Primroses an' daisies still deck the green brae ; 
The lambkins danee glad in the warm sunny valley, 

But sad is my bosom — my widowed heart wae ; 
For deep hangs the gloom o'er yon cauld, silent tomb, 

Whare sleeps my lov'd darling sae lowly alane 1 
With smile sae endearing nae mair my heart cheering — 

Adieu to youth's pleasures — farewell to my Jean ! 

When wild howling storms set the dark woods in motion ; 

When loud pealing thunders 'mid pitchy clouds roll ; 
When the red setting moon meets the foam-spirting ocean, 

Oh I these are the scenes that delight my sad soul 
The lone blighted leas, the bare whistling trees. 

The mist-shrouded mountains my haunts aye hae 
been, — 
From the hoar cliffs surrounding, a deep voice is sounding : 

" Adieu to life's pleasures — farewell to my Jean I" 

— 1 

Note. The above beautiful and impassioned song, is 
the composition of Mr. A. Harper, Aberchirder, Banff, 
shire, Mr. Harper is a gentleman now in the decline of 
life ; possessed of an amiable and refined mind, and 
being naturally of a retiring and unassuming disposition, 
although the author of many exquisite poems and songs, 
he is almost unknown — except to a few congenial friends 
— beyond his own locality. Instead of thrusting himself 



216 SONGS. 

forward on public notice, it has been his inclination, as 
well as his delight, 

" To wander lone by Deveron's stream, 
Or on the banks o" Bogie," 

holding high and healthful communion with that beauti- 
ful charmer Nature — the goddess of all true poets — whom 
he has, almost unknown to the world, long and ardently 
worshipped. An Epistle by the same author will be 
found in another part of this volume, (see page, 185,) 
which is published not only for its own intrinsic merit, 
but also as a proof of the true friendship — founded on a 
reciprocity of feelings, dispositions, and pursuits — which 
has long existed, and, I trust, will long continue to exist, 
between its author and myself. P. S. 



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